


Nichorello Prompts

by ultrafreakyfangirl



Category: Orange is the New Black
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-19 22:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19981213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrafreakyfangirl/pseuds/ultrafreakyfangirl
Summary: A series of Nichorello prompts - some longer than others, one-shots. Bare with me, I am still trying to get used to the formatting on this forum. I've realized now that chapter fics are the way to go, over series. Takes less time to upload.





	1. Envy is for Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is work that I wrote on FF.net last year when I had just gotten into the OITNB fandom I was hoping it might get more reception here, but who knows, plus I wanted to start writing for them again now that season 7 is dropping tomorrow #OrangeForever These are all stand-alone prompts unless otherwise stated. Hope you enjoy them! And if you have any in mind, as always, throw em my way! :)

Lorna loved Jealous Nicky. Honestly, she did. She loved Vinny wholeheartedly, and that was all fine and good, and she wasn’t a weakling, she wouldn’t cheat, she would stay loyal. But Jealous Nicky was something else. She was fire. She was spite.

There was an anger there masked by blatant, ingenuine indifference and obvious annoyance, because Lorna loved a man, and Nicky Nichols, was not one. She was a woman: a woman with curly hair that could get a little scraggly, dark makeup that reminded Lorna of her older sister’s teenaged _‘emo’_ phase, often smudged, sometimes snaking down her freckly, drug addled skin.

Still though, she was a woman that Lorna found attractive.

Her attitude was aggressive, powerful and no-nonsense, something picked up from Red, she’d bet. And _fuck her_ because it was hot.

Lorna giggled to herself. Around Vinny she was always careful to watch her mouth, because classy ladies never used foul language, and she was one. It was yet another thing Nichols was _not_ and with a groan intended only for her own ears, Lorna just smiled back, trying to bite back the scowl threatening to ruin her fresh lip.

 _Fuck her_ because she was sexy as hell. _Fuck her_ because if she didn’t stop rolling those eyes and clucking that tongue – which, she knew not five minutes ago had some tablet dissolving under it, Lorna might just have to. Fuck her, that is.

Gosh, how she loved that word in association with Nicky. Fuck. Fuck, fuck _, fuck._ That’s what they did.

She and Vinny made love, they made love like only two married people knew how, and Lorna delighted in it; but, she and Nicky did something else.

Something different. Dirtier. Deeper (in the physical sense – damn that woman had tricks with her fingers that Lorna could never figure out). Kinkier.

And she loved it. She did. Craved it, even.

Right this minute was proof of that because here was Nicky, sitting across from her in the cafeteria, moaning and groaning and griping, all sardonically of course, because she never did anything without a mocking accent – it was as prevalent as her Italian, sometimes just as sharp, but never as smooth.

She was acting like a child envious of the fact that her best friend had other friends that weren’t her, and as much as it was _pissing_ Lorna off, it was also unexplainably turning her on.

But then she watched as Nicky’s eyes started to shut again not on their own volition, blinking, once, twice, her gaze trained upwards and the motion backwards, proving just how high she really was, and it was enough this time for her arousal to completely dissipate; the blood that had rushed with adrenaline down south zoomed back to her head and once again, she was able to think straight. Thankfully.

Because she’d forgotten amongst all this, amongst all of her bloody hormones, how angry she really was. She tried to keep her voice even, _classy,_ and raised her head to meet Nicky’s eyes.

They were dark, almost hateful, which was frightening, but then she remembered the limpidness was the drugs and she loved Lorna too much to hate her.

She’d said so herself. Okay, maybe not in so many words, but honestly, who could hate her – she was such a delight.

A cute, pretty, excitable delight. Or so Vinny says. And as her husband, he was always right. She’d chosen wisely. She knew that. And so, because she was faithful and proud of that, Lorna had decided _right this second_ that even just lusting after Nicky was inappropriate, a cheater’s way. And so, she had to put a stop to it. Right now.

And Lorna knew what would hit her hard. It was a little mean but, in the end, it would also be effective. She knew that.

_“Stop it. Stop it! You left, you were the one who left, right? I didn’t know you were coming back, and it’s your fault – “_

And here, Lorna thought, was the kicker.

_“Because you love heroin more than you love me.”_

What she didn’t know was that whatever she took, in addition to death-like drowsiness, it also made Nicky resilient to feeling the sore spot of her love for her, and unfiltered, because Lorna knew that if Nicky were sober, those vile names would not have come out of her mouth.

They may have been thought but they would never have been said. It was a side effect of the love. Lorna knew Nicky couldn’t stand to see her upset, let alone inflict said upset onto her, herself. Never.

And here, she did. _“You peanut-brained, fickle-hearted whore.”_

And everyone was stunned into silence. And then Red came along. And with a smugness that was obviously totally out of character for her, Lorna sold her out.

_“She’s on drugs, Red. Just take a look at her. She’s smacked out of her gourd.”_

It didn’t make her feel any better. It made her feel worse. Especially seeing the look on Nicky’s face. It deflated her triumph like a pin to a balloon. And just like Nicky and upsetting her, it was the same side effect, of that same love. _Maybe._ **_No._**

Lorna shook her head. Her love was reserved for Vinny. Her love _belonged_ to Vinny. Maybe

once upon another time, it could belong to other people, and in the past, it had belonged to other people, _to someone else._

But now, she thought, not sparing a glance behind her as Nicky left in a huff, her love belonged to her _husband._ Mr. Muccio. And she, _Mrs. Muccio._

….

Nicky thought she loved Jealous Lorna. The key word here being _thought._ As in an assumption.

“ _And you know what they say about assumptions, babe”,_

Nicky could practically hear herself gloating to the poor girl just hours before, when she stalked into the cafeteria all high and mighty and entitled and _Lorna,_ saying that she was pregnant and biology or some shit practically forced her to come onto her the way she did. To scream her name the way she did. _“it makes an ass out of me and you.”_

The autonomy of the act makes that clear, the body doesn’t need to be coerced by pregnancy to be horny. If it needs a good fuck, it needs a good fuck. There was no shame in that where she was concerned. Lorna though, thought differently, about their sweet, sweet, copulative relationship with a dash of unrequited love thrown in there.Some days, their relationship was a real bitch to navigate but damn her if she ever gave it up. _“Actually, I think it’s you and me.”_

Even if she wanted to slap her sometimes, she just couldn’t. Wouldn’t. This whole time, Nicky thought that it was Lorna who couldn’t cope alone, but she was wrong, and she realized that now. It was her who couldn’t cope. _Bastard._

She’d been kissing that other girl - she was pretty, new and unfamiliar, like a shiny penny, whose name she’d instantly forgotten and would never need to know, and there had been tongue, so much tongue and the ass grabbing…it was _insane_ ; in the middle of a god damn riot with people fighting and screaming and pulling each other’s hair like little girls.

Meanwhile, they were the grown-up ones, the adults who had wine and cheese parties and took the high road and most of all were not petty. Except, Nicky was. She was the pettiest woman alive. 

She’d hoped Lorna would come dashing around the corner in search for her, _predictable,_ _sweet baby_ _Lorna,_ and get a nice view of her ragdoll lady love touching some other woman’s tits.

The image she’d cured up in her head was perfect. It tasted like victory. And revenge. But when the moment finally came, and the image was to come to fruition outside her mind’s eye, it was what it promised to be: an illusion. A heartbreaking, guilt-tripping illusion.

Lorna hadn’t been running, hadn’t been looking for her. She looked pathetic, actually, dragging that trash bag behind her like some good-for-nothing custodial folk, but it wasn’t her stature, the way she was physically carrying herself, that stopped Nicky in her tracks, her mouth suspended above the girl’s like a tease.

It was her face. The expression there. It looked a lot like defeat, looked a lot like giving up, something the _junky addict liar_ in her knew the taste of like she knew absolutely nothing else. It gave her pause.

 _“Who is that?”_ Until that question was asked, and like a trigger, her eyes closed, then opened, so quick you would have thought she was sneering, because they’d barely closed at all. Because she didn’t have time to think.

If she did, she wouldn’t go through with it, would answer _“ **that** is the love of my life”_ instead of a forcedly flippant _“nobody.”_

And it all would have turned out great, except after that, the spite she’d been harboring in the last five minutes had all but left her completely. There was a trace of it still there but not enough. 

It _sucked,_ because it meant two things: one, that Nicky couldn’t appreciate the smoking hot piece of ass that _she_ was, _seriously damn,_ and the one that she’d been playing a tough game of tonsil hockey with a minute ago; and two, it also meant that Lorna Morello – wait, excuse her, Lorna Morello- _Muccio (_ ugh, please, somebody gag her), still had a fucking hold on her.

 _Shit,_ this psychotic bitch was harder to shake than the heroin.

The difference was, Lorna caused more harm to her than the drugs. She knew that, but as it is with an addict’s tendencies, she couldn’t bring herself to quit. The withdrawal would be _brutal_


	2. Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicky's return from Max.

Nicky’s kisses were a myriad of things for her. They were colorful, too. Like an aura. Lorna remembered Yoga Jones spurring on about that, when she was having a particularly rough and day yesterday and she’d cried herself to voice lessness and Nicky wasn’t there because she was in that god-awful place where all the god-awful criminals were kept, and a god-awful criminal, Nicky Nichols was not.

Yoga Jones had told her that Nicky’s aura was a soft and warm color, and that people would see that and leave her be. At the time it was a comfort and at least somewhat stopped the nightmares from happening – she’d awake in a cold sweat during the night, panting hard with tears both dried and fresh plaguing her cheeks.

She’d dream that Nicky had been beaten to death, or raped, or was back on the pills and overdosed – sometimes the overdose was an accident, sometimes it wasn’t, because Max was hell on their version of Earth, and this time, her love for Lorna couldn’t keep her head above water.

Sometimes, these dreams made her sick, sick with a yearning for death, suicidal ideated because for all she knew, the one person whom she trusted to keep her sane was gone forever and she was spiralling.

She stopped caring about her looks, her beauty a flaky reminder of the woman she’d been with Nicky by her side: she had been vain, piddling, sure, she would admit that, but she had also been strong and tall, _happy._ She let her hair go awry and could barely summon the strength to brush her teeth in the morning. It was a disaster. _She_ was a disaster.

Lorna hadn’t seen herself as naive. But of course, she was. She shared naivety with a child, sometimes uncomprehending, mostly blissful and ignorant. She took things for granted, assuming that they would always be there. She’d taken Nicky for granted, taken her love without so much as a thank you, because there would be time for thanks and reciprocation later, because she would always be there. Until she wasn’t.

Until a guard whom had clearly been abused by his mother as a child, roughly grabbed Nicky’s arm with enough force to leave bruises on that beautiful skin, and hauled her off to Max.

There had been so much crying and her declaration of love, no matter its depth, was ill-timed, yelled across a hallway, the ascendancy of heavy sobs garbling and drowning out her words. _“I love you too!”_

It felt like it had been weeks, although maybe, for all she knew, it had been just days or hours, even, since that moment. Since the second her life changed, and her world spun on its axis. And clearly, she couldn’t handle it. She couldn’t handle a lot of things, but she really, really, could not handle this thing in particular.

Just like her aura, Nicky’s kisses were warm, and to her, they were pink and orange, muddled together like the colors of a sunset, and one kiss could change everything. It had, before.

A kiss to her skin, to any part of her, right now, would allow her to cope with this, but longing for it was futile because the giver of her release (in more ways than one) was gone, and who knew when she’d be back, if she’d be back at all.

There was no way of knowing if she was okay, as she’d told and asked everyone who said she would be or was. _“How do you know that?” “You don’t know that.”_ They were just trying to help, she knew that, and wanted so badly to appreciate it, but all she wanted was Nicky. And she couldn’t have her. Not right now. And possibly never again.

The salty, dampness of her tears were permanent, staining her skin once healthy, even as its pallor marred the exoticism of her nationality. She’d once been pretty, if she did say so herself, but not anymore. She didn’t feel as though she had one ounce of beauty in her, least of all in the way Nicky possessed it.

Nicky’s kisses weren’t only warm, but they were soft, sometimes tentative, like a whisper against her lips. They were demure, honest, and when her mouth made contact, Lorna could feel her inward vulnerability, the stuff she tried so hard to keep hidden behind that bold, ex-druggie, _I-don’t-give-a-fuck-do-whatever-the-fuck-you-want_ exterior.

That feeling was beautiful. It was like a picture of the woman Nicky aspired to be before the drugs – a woman with expressive, humorful eyes, an absence of dark bruising underneath and the veiny redness of a high, thick dark hair sans bleach job after bleach job, and perfect teeth, as white as her own.

The one thing that remained the same in the picture of this other woman of another life, was her smile. It’s impish and coquettish but genuine and sweet at the same time. And it was Lorna’s favorite feature. Nicky may be beautiful in her own _recovered-hapless-drug-addict_ way, but that smile was _gorgeous_. Sometimes, all Lorna had to do was picture that smile, and it was over for her.

Right now, picturing that smile made her dissolve into a pile of new tears, the sobs so violent they wracked her shoulders.

“Hey, hey, that’s enough.” said a voice from above her. “What happened to that pretty, made-up face of yours, punkin?”

She knew that voice. But…could it really be?

Lorna looked up and came face to face with the one, the only, Nicky Freakin’ Nichols.

“Oh my gosh,” she gasped and before Nicky could even think about moving even an inch, Lorna was on her feet with her arms wrapped so tightly around her, Nicky struggled to catch her breath.

“You’re here!” she squealed, burying her face into her neck, wanting to breathe nothing but the scent of her skin, sweat-ridden and cold. She wanted to warm it again, so she kissed it over and over, trying to block out the images of the suffering Nicky must have endured down there. 

She laughed against her clavicle, hearing Nicky’s faint but audible just the same, moan of approval, of the pleasure she’d been deprived of, gotten from another’s touch. _Her_ touch.

“Babe,” she hissed through her teeth as Lorna returned to the hallow of her throat, feeling the vibrations of her voice as she spoke. “You gotta stop it.”

“No,” Lorna whispered back, kissing her cheeks, then her forehead. “Not a chance, Nichols.”

Nicky laughed. “Well then can you at least give a little to my lips? They’re dyin’ here, slugger.”

 _Slugger._ Hearing the nickname made her heart jump, made her breath catch and her skin hot. It felt like forever since that name has come out of her mouth, and it was hearing it that made her realize how much she’d missed it.

The first time she called her that was years ago, back when their relations started, and they’d become more familiar, daring to kiss and do other things with a newfound ferocity, trusting now, of each other.

Lorna had left a hickey so dark and so large, directly on Nicky’s pulse point and she thought that when she saw it, Nicky would want her dead, because there would be questions. Instead, when she saw Lorna the next day in the hallway, she took her aside, pointed to the bruise and leaned in to whisper in her ear, nipping at it ever so hard.

She couldn’t bite back a reaction and Nicky chuckled as she felt the shape on her skin. It was almost risen. Before Lorna could apologize, Nicky beat her to the punch. _“Don’t worry about it.”_ Her voice was quiet, sibilant against her eardrum. Sexy. _“You really did a number on me, didn’t ya, slugger?”_

Now, Lorna couldn’t help it. Her mouth practically attacked Nicky’s and she bit and sucked and they made out like teenagers for a few minutes, with an “I missed you so damn much” in between every breath.

They were laying on her bunk before she knew it, their limbs one of the same persons. Lorna had her face buried in her chest and Nicky was rubbing her back in soothing circles, tangling her fingers through her hair. She was telling Nicky about the dreams she’d been having, and Nicky sighed emphatically. “It’s okay, kid,” she mumbled, kissing the top of her head. “Momma’s got you now.”

The way she said this wasn’t perverse, in fact it was the furthest thing from it, and she took comfort in it.

“Yeah…Nicks?” she asked, and Nicky smiled down at her, encouragingly. The look in her eyes made Lorna believe she already knew what she was just now finding the courage to say. In case she didn’t hear it the last time. “I love you.”

Lorna’s favorite smile lit up Nicky’s tired face. “Oh yeah?”

Snuggling further into her chest and closing her eyes, Lorna sighed. “Mhm.” She was asleep within seconds, Nicky’s breathing, a touch heavier than she remembered it being, a soothing cadence to her dreamless slumber.

For a couple hours, she could forget that she was married. It wasn’t cheating if it was only kissing. And that’s all they did, despite Nicky’s pleas at first. Just a few kisses.

Those kisses were her kryptonite, but with a husband at home, she couldn’t think like that, could she?


	3. Sweet Dreams are Made of This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nichorello ft. baby bump. Aka Lorna has trouble sleeping, so Nicky tries her best.

The morning sickness – more like _every-minute-of-the-day_ sickness, had finally stopped sometime last week – or was it last month? Yesterday? Nicky had once told her that time in here doesn’t pass like it would on the outside, not that her fried nuerons had even registered time the normal way – it was more like a waiting game until her next high, _like a shit rigged game of **Deal or No Deal**._

Not that Lorna even knew what that meant. She’d guess it was some sort of TV show, but she’d been here too long to have that guess be even remotely educated. Nicky though, Nicky knew everything, or at least more than she did, and was always there making sure that Lorna didn’t get her _pretty little head with those niggling motherly instincts,_ caught up in some _ridiculous gangbang on a quest for righteousness._

It was comforting, having her there. Everything about her was comforting now, Lorna thought, in a place like this no match for an innocent, expecting mother wanting only what was best for her child.

Kitten couldn’t live in a place like this, a place full of injustice, with integrity in the shitter along with _literal shit,_ and the smells, oh the smells, a precious, soft little baby nose would never stand a chance. Frankly, Lorna was losing the fight herself.

And Nicky knew that. Somehow, Nicky had always known what she’d been thinking, was always able to get her runaway thoughts back to stable ground, would whisper soothing words to her for as long as it took, even sometimes going as far as sneaking into her bunk during rec-time and nearly giving her a heart attack – and her Daddy had died from one when she was seven, so that was a scary premonition… _wait, no, it was a predisposition, eh…uh…something to do with genetics_.

Anyway, Nicky took it upon herself to make it a habit that they’d take naps together, because Lorna got next to no sleep during the night.

She’d come in her bunk and press herself against Lorna’s side – also a new development, along with the disappearance of the morning sickness, was that she was forced to sleep on her back. And she hated it. Kitten was a total _every-minute-of the-day-owl,_ kicking, and kicking, doing some tumbling like he was in a tiny tots Gymboree (she made a mental note to sign him up for that when he was a bit older. Seemed like that was his thing).

And so, in part of a mother’s sacrifice, and in part because of Nicky tracing her fingers very close to her pubic bone ( _‘it’s just your bump, babe, I promise. He’s kicking and I’m trying to calm him. Nothing dirty I swear’)_ Lorna was doomed to sleeplessness.

Sometimes, Nicky didn’t sleep either. She’d just stare at Lorna, obviously thinking she didn’t notice and was also obviously wrong, with this look on her face that made Lorna feel like she was the light that sourced the entire world. Having someone look at you like that was something else, and distracting. Very distracting. And she’d told her so.

_“Okay, you gotta stop looking at me like that. I can’t sleep.”_

_“Yeah, you can. It’s easy. Just close your eyes.”_

_“You gotta close yours too, then.”_

_“No can do, kid.”_

_“Why not?”_

Nicky had never answered her question that day. And eventually, she did fall asleep. Probably with Nicky watching her. But that was okay. It reminded her of her mom’s lucid days when she was young, and Lorna was barely six, and nightmares were her tormentor, until her mom, with her magic touch, featherlight against her back, made them stop. Those nights were her fondest memory of her mother, of the lively person she’d used to be, putting her children’s needs before her own.

And here, Nicky was doing the same thing. Sure, Lorna was past thirty and hardly needed a mommy anymore and was actually due to become one herself, but the comfort was nice. Having her there was nice.

Sometimes, neither of them would sleep. If Kitten was restless beyond the confines of their calming, Lorna would be flat on her back, the hardness of the mattress felt more than normal, and Nicky beside her, a hand against her belly, fingers splayed along its hump. They’d both feel kicks in rhythmic silence, one more deeply than the other – Lorna felt like her insides were being bruised purple, while Nicky felt strong fluttering at the most.

She could remember the first time the baby kicked. She’d been moved to tears in the middle of lunch and she could remember Nicky being so confused and mildly frustrated because _‘babe, there’s nothing to feel. Seriously. You gotta sack up before one of the guards drags your pregnant butt down to Psych’_

Yet, sometime later, after weeks, maybe a month or so had passed, Nicky had felt them too. And when she did, Lorna couldn’t help but wipe a thumb under her eye and kiss away the tears. With her thumb against her lip, she smiled, as Nicky grabbed tightly onto her wrist and shook, pure extasy there on her face. It may have been the happiest Lorna had ever seen her _. ‘Jesus, Lorn, did you feel that?_ _Holy shit, that’s fuckin something. That’s life right there, kid.’_

Tonight, the kicks were abundant, and sleep was unforthcoming. Lorna stared up at the ceiling with its cracked moulding, praying to every, single, god up there that the ceiling wouldn’t fall and kill her and her baby. It was a runaway thought and Lorna breathed deep, once, twice, three times, in and out, to will it away.

The panic kept rising and her palms were sweaty, and the baby’s kicks were getting more and more needy and it was dark, and her roommate was taking a stark-naked shit in the corner and the muffled groans were ghostly and Nicky wasn’t here, and she didn’t know what to do.

“It’s okay, Kitten,” she murmured, rubbing gentle circles along her belly. “Mommy’s here …”

“So is Auntie Nicks,” a voice spoke softly in the dark.

It sounded like it had an echo, like it was far away, tinny and heavy with exhaustion. It was then that Lorna realized it was coming through the vent adjacent to her bunk.

“Go to sleep, Kitty Cat. Your Momma needs to sleep too, okay? You’re being very rude, you know.”

“Nicky,” Lorna breathed, then a bit louder, but quiet enough not to rouse her now sleeping roommate. “Nicky!”

There was a chuckle and she could practically see Nicky bite her bottom lip and feel her hand carding through her hair. “I’m here, baby. Live and in-stereo. So, you can’t sleep, either, huh?”

“No. I’ve tried. I wish you were here.”

Nicky sighed, and Lorna could practically feel the longing in her voice. It was a strong pull. “Me too, kid. But hey, let’s try this.”

“Try – “

“Before Lorna could even voice her question, Nicky’s voice, soft and gentle, filled the cell.

“This one’s for you. And the fetus inside of you. Hey, Kitten, you hear that? Listen up.”

Nicky’s singing was sweet, unmarred by the violence and hate of this world and had a rising, quiet, vulnerability. Like a child’s.

With her fresh face, curly hair and swooping banana bangs, she looked the part too. But past her juvenile features, cute and delicate, two things she was furthest from, was a brooding adult brain.

The juxtaposition always seemed to make her heart beat tenfold. From the moment she first saw her in Gen Pop. It wasn’t from lust (not all of the time, anyway, but still, those hormones were impossible to ignore), but from something else, something much more intense and impassioned, something that made her both inexplicably happy and inexplicably sad. It was something so close, yet, something so freakin’ far. There was always something standing in its way.

She tried not to think about that right now and instead, while still rubbing circles on her belly, focused hard on Nicky’s voice.

_“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are grey. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you… Please don’t take my sunshine away.”_

Just as Nicky drew in a breath, Lorna did too, but there was no more stirring from Kitten. He was asleep.

‘ _That was beautiful’,_ Lorna had wanted to say, so, incredibly taken aback. That was new. She had no idea Nicky could sing like that.

Instead, what came out was “you’re beautiful” which made her blush crimson with embarrassment and she covered her cheeks even though there was no way Nicky could see them.

Nicky just chuckled. But there was light reflecting through it. “Thanks, kid. So are you. Now, go to sleep. Or do you need me to sing you to sleep, too?”

Lorna wanted to laugh. _Could she ask her to? Or would that be weird?_ Lorna shook her head. There was nothing that she couldn’t ask, she knew that. Nicky had made that clear.

“Could you?”

Her voice was shy, a little fearful. She knew that Nicky needed her sleep, too, but she also knew that there was nothing that she wouldn’t do for her. That, too, was something else.

“Gladly, sweetheart.”

And Lorna wanted to laugh again. That was her term of endearment. _Stealer._ She grinned.

And then Nicky started to sing again. The same, sweet song. And Lorna was asleep within seconds.

The next morning, when Nicky sat down for breakfast, she placed a sneaky kiss to the top of her head while her palm rubbed softly just below her bellybutton, unrushed because the table concealed what she was doing.

“How are my sunshines, this fine morning?”

Lorna gave her a wide smile, leaning into her side. “We’re well rested, thanks to you.”

Nicky winked at her, the action inconspicuous to those around them. “Glad to hear it.”


	4. Cold Showers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mild smut.

Nicky walked into the dorm bathroom looking forward to a shower. She wasn’t looking forward to one alone – Lorna had custodial duties earlier this morning and she couldn’t bare to wake her. She’d looked so peaceful, curled up like a house cat on top of her mattress; such soft, small breaths emanating from such a soft, small body, that were somehow just sweet enough to get Nicky to brave one, lukewarm shower, in their stall, alone.

She was regretting that decision now as she passed the stall that came before theirs. Actually, right at this moment, she was missing the kid so much that she swore she could hear that lilting little voice, heavy with that poor man’s posh accent, tunelessly murmuring song lyrics as she shampooed. 

_“I should be anywhere but here, on the plane, on the stage, on TV…”_

Nicky knew that song. _Of course,_ she knew that song. She’d _taught_ her that song. One movie night eons ago, Nicky’s pick finally won out and _Annie_ played on that shitty projector and she sat in the front row, with Lorna as much on her own seat as she was in Nicky’s lap, watching her mouth the song lyrics and the entirety of her favorite scenes with laughter on her lips and a smile just beneath.

_“But I find myself here at the Snot House…”_

Nicky almost laughed. The song reminded her of being in here.

Except, their Snot House had shitty, borderline fraudulent (although Nicky suspected it _was_ ) work detail and three-square meals a day that left them barely able to get by; and as Nicky saw it, Miss Hannigan, with her hefty supply of actual alcohol and showers with normal water pressure had no right to complain. No right at all. Sure, she was stuck with all these _little girls_ and had no man whom she’d use to live a lavish lifestyle, but women were better for that anyhow. Unless that was just her sexuality talking. It could be.

Damn, she was really missing her girl. There was the voice again. Was she going crazy?

_“Little shoes, little socks, please kill me, I’m serious.”_

Her hand reached out to rip open the curtain, feeling confident enough now that she could. That she knew who it was behind it. But then her hand stopped. She snickered. Really snickered this time.

_“Please kill me, I’m not singing, I’m asking.”_

To hear those words come from her mouth was hilarious. Almost unfortunately so. If she didn’t get her baby and her husband and her white-picket fence… Nicky was certain Lorna would rather die.

Nicky would give her all of the clichés in the world, full stop, if she could. It was just that they were in prison, cooped up in this shithole like a brood of chickens. _(Damn Chapman and her dumb ass terminology for animal species. She didn’t need to know any of it. Yet here she was)._ And the whole marriage and kids idyll with _her_ wasn’t exactly the way Lorna had it pictured in her head. Given that she wasn’t a man and all that.

And that killed her. Not that she didn’t like being a woman. Girl power and all that. _Rah – rah - rah._ It’s just that sometimes she got the feeling that Lorna would be happier with a man. That she wasn’t happy with her. Despite the twangy – _“oh, no, hon, I’m plenty happy with you, trust me, **plenty happy** indeed – _that spilled from her mouth in a lethargic, sticky sigh soon after she’d finished, that was supposed to placate her, Nicky wasn’t sure she could quite believe her.

_“Locked in a cage with all the rats…”_

She’d done the bisexual girl in high school. The girl that teetered on the edge of the pool, barely dipping her toes in as an act of rebellion against her strict Catholic parents; or the girl who’d drank too many Jell-O shots at the house party, hair plastered to her cheeks, with a goofy grin and a screeching voice, who’d followed Nicky’s beaconing upstairs, meeting her halfway and then giggle as she’d slyly quote Lou Reed into her hot, sweaty ear, in a hot, sweaty voice. _“Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side.”_

She’d done it and she’d hated it. It had ended in heartbreak. And she’d had no desire whatsoever to go back there.

Until she met her. Morello. Lorna. With a fiancé. Christopher. She didn’t know his last name and frankly she didn’t care. Lorna without Morello just wouldn’t sound as nice.

So, Lorna Morello was just another bisexual girl. Woman. A woman whom Nicky had no business getting herself tangled up with. But all that flew out the window.

 _“Stupid girl,”_ Red had said, sniffing out Nicky’s sex hair (which wasn’t all that different from the rat’s nest usually, so that in itself was a talent) and that fucking June Cleaver lipstick on her neck. _“She has a husband, Nicky.”_

A fiancé was different than a husband. A fiancé was expendable. Not in like a murder-y way. Jesus, she wasn’t a sociopath, she’d told Red in response to her motherly chastising. _“It just isn’t a done deal yet.”_

 _“And you think you’re big enough in the britches to change that, hm?”_ Red had asked her, her composure wavering none. There was no belittling, just a question. _“Maybe,”_ she’d responded with the smirk she flashes at all the girls. _“I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”_

And Red ate her words.

_“And I’m stuck with the scraps and I can’t seem to find my way back. Get me out, get me out of here!”_

Sure, it could be because this Christopher Whatever was just a blind, dummy, asshole who couldn’t see that he had it good when he did, but now it was Nicky’s chance to do it right and do it right she would.

Just then, as she sang one more line – _“I’m ready to start ‘em after all these years…”_ and her voice naturally petered out, transitioning into more of a hum, the water was switched off and Nicky could hear the drumbeat of the water droplets dripping from her body.

Smiling, she opened the flimsy curtain and there was Lorna, all exposed for her to see (and the entire dorm bathroom, but that was hardly something to be ashamed of in here). She let out a little squeal of surprise that appeased her, and Nicky chuckled.

“Hey, there babe. I see you beat me to the showers this morning, huh?”

She smiled a catlike grin that made little, innocent, _straight-depending-on-the-day-it-suited her_ , Lorna Morello shake in her bare feet. And her bare _everything else_. It was hot.

“Uh, yeah, uh, I just wanted to – uh – “

She was blushing left, right, and center, and no matter how cute Nicky thought it was, it was best to just get right down to it. She knew what her plan had been. She’d wanted a hot shower. And to get it, she’d known she’d have to beat Nicky to it. It was the same thing Nicky and done to Lorna once or twice, too, except the difference was, Nicky had actually pulled it off.

“You just wanted to have a hot shower this morning. I get it. I’m not one to hold a grudge,” she smiled at her again. “How was it? Was it as hot as you were imagining it would be?”

Nicky waggled her eyebrows suggestively before adding “did the showerhead do you justice? What do you call her again?”

Lorna rolled her eyes but laughed. “It was a he, and _his_ name was Christopher. Before…everything…”

Seeing Lorna’s vacant, forlorn expression almost made her drop the act entirely, but then in a blip almost too quick for human comprehension, it was gone, and a grin took its place.

“No, definitely not. It was cold.”

“Awe,” Nicky tilted her head and clucked her tongue. “Poor baby.”

She reached her hand behind her back and shut the curtain again. Appraising her for a moment too long that she knew Lorna would find comfortable, Nicky widened her mouth in a savage smile.

“Do you need me to warm you up, buttercup?”

Lorna giggled. “Ha. Um…”

Nicky laughed. If the space was large enough, she knew Lorna would be shifting from foot to foot, weighing her options, dancing around the subject, something that wasn’t idiosyncratic but still, uniquely _Lorna._

She was still blushing, staring down at the poorly tiled floor and shitty shower shoes, and blushing, faint, powdery crimson on the apples of her cheeks, with the delicacy of those porcelain dolls her grandmother bought her when she was a child.

It was a fond memory she had of a person she was fond of, and having Lorna remind her of it, of something so innocent, while she was simultaneously suckered into a lewd state by her physical presence, was enough to take her even breaths and make a massacre of them.

Her shoulders and her arms were covered in goosebumps, her stomach was pale, but flat, with a core to brag about, smooth skin fading into an even paler groin, her hips like miniature valleys, water rivulets falling down them like rain, coupling together amongst her inner thighs, and between them lay a freshly lathered and shaven _pussy_ and _god damn_ did she want to do things to it with her tongue. Things that would make _straight-as-they-come_ Lorna Morello scream until she had nothing left to give.

The vision in front of her that was her, for lack of a better term, girlfriend, was giving Nicky chills. The good kind. Not the kind that made her want to curl up into a ball and die at the hands of a heroin withdrawal. She hadn’t felt like that in years. And it had been a little while – three days, twenty-two hours to be exact – since she’d felt like this, too.

“What are you waitin’ for, hon?”

Nicky laughed. Lorna Morello and Sandra Freakin _won’t-go-to-bed-till-I’m-legally-wed-_ Dee were pretty similar, she’d give her that. _That_ was hot.

_Imagine…Sandra leather-pants-wearing-cigarette-smoking-50’s-pinup girl Dee leaving Danny Zuko slack-jawed at the carnival while he watches her make out with Rizzo. Hotter._

_Now imagine Lorna I’ve-got-a-fiancé-and-we’re-getting-married – Morello leaving Christopher What’s-His Name: she breaks up with him over the phone one minute and is giving it to Nicky Nichols behind the alter of the chapel the next. Now that, friends, would be something to rave on about._

“What am I waiting for, babe?”

Lorna’s eyes were steely, hard _._ Dark with lust and velvety with bliss and she hadn’t even touched her yet. _Oh man, this was going to be fun._

She didn’t hesitate, and as proud as Nicky was, she was taken aback too. The girl had come a long way from staring googly eyed at old wedding magazines and going on about Christopher like he was God.

“Fuck me.”

“Woah there. Are you begging me for it?”

Lorna shook her head, no. Her curls were damp and sticking to her cheeks. Nicky wanted to brush them out of the way but she dare not move.

“No. I’m _telling_ you.”

 _Shit._ And that’s how it started.

Nicky could only remember glimpses.

The way Lorna grabbed mercilessly at her bare throat, the imprint of her golden cross an insignia both of irony and satire: _if she was such a godly woman, would she be fucking a **woman** , or letting a woman fuck her, so roughly?_

Of course, Lorna couldn’t answer that. She couldn’t get anything out past the string of deep, heady moans coming through her lips, her head bashed against the tiled wall, probably bruised, not like she cared.

Nicky thought she looked so pretty like that, _beautiful_ , caught up in the heated throes of passion, sexy and raw, vulnerable and in control all the same; the way she hid her hands in Nicky’s hair and pushed, sending her back against the curtain, separating her thighs with small, strong hands. _My turn._

It was a blur after that. She had no hope of recollection before they slumped back against the wall, breaths slipping and sliding in the lingering steam as they held each other and let the water run cold.

…

A couple hours later, after lunch during down time, Boo came striding past her bunk, whistling with a smirk on her face.

“So, Nichols,” she started, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall of her cube. “How was your shower this morning?”

Nicky scoffed. Her preamble could use a little work, honestly. “It was cold. Thanks for that by the way.”

Boo chuckled, then shook her head. “Oh, my bad. I thought you _loved_ cold showers.”

“Where’d you hear that?” she asked.

She was genuinely curious _– because who actually liked cold showers_? – but more in the realm of mildly pissed off because she knew Boo’s game, knew how she played it.

“Morello. She was prancing around here, telling everyone that she’d take a cold shower any day, _so people could use up all the hot water they so pleased and it wouldn’t bother her any._ ”

Of course. _Seriously, Lorn?_ Also, she couldn’t help but notice that Boo’s fake accent was horrifically strong and more Boston than Italian. It was kind of disgusting, and Nicky found herself offended on Lorna’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” Nicky murmured, elaborating none. “That’s the kid for you. Always running her pretty little mouth off.”

“What’d you do? You must’ve really made her week, huh, Nichols? Nobody in the right mind would give up a hot shower for sex. Unless…a _cold shower?_ Is that some kind of kinky sex shit?”

Nicky said nothing. The smirk that tugged at the corners of her mouth was tamed.

“Seriously?” Boo laughed.

“Are you and Morello into some kind of kinky sex shit? I have my fair share of kinks, but that’s new. Cold showers. Huh. I guess the freezing water intensifies the orgasm by freezing your extremities, instead of heating them? Am I right? Or sort-of right, at least? Come on, give me something.”

Nicky just shook her head, turned back to her book. _The Life of Pi._ The kid had her reading now.

“Something like that.”

The water was only cold near the end, and it intensified nothing. Because _cross-bearing, lipstick-wearing baby-bride_ Lorna Morello was coming down from her third orgasm by then.

She smirked. And Boo raised an eyebrow.

“There’s a chip in the wall. If you look closely, you can see it.”

“Alright then.” Boo whistled, beginning to walk away. “I’ll have to check it out next time I go jerk off.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nicky mumbled to herself but not loud enough, so Boo would hear. The last thing she wanted was for that to be something the woman could feed off of. Nothing to get her started again.

Except, she _was_ with Lorna on this one. Cold showers did beat warm ones. _Officially_ , now. The kid had a point. A very good point. They’d make a habit of this, Nicky would make sure of it.


	5. You Will Do Right By Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 6x13.

Why wasn’t she getting a shot? Why wasn’t she getting a shot!? _Why wasn’t she getting a shot!?_ She was running. Running as fast as this fucking, shitty cotton polyester _whatever- the- fuck_ jacket would let her.

It was weighing her down massively and if she’d had enough sense she would’ve chucked it off halfway, but she clearly did not. Not now, anyways. Not _right fucking now_ , she didn’t.

She was running, and she was _hot_ and the blood in her veins would not stop circulating in the way that it did when she was gearing up for a high that would _really fuck her up._ And she was screaming. _Bloody screaming_ , for Christ’s sakes.

It was _her_ _name,_ so loud that its volume and her thick, bitter tears made her throat ache. Pretty fucking badly. Would somebody give her a _god damn shot!?_ Any one of these entitled, fuckwit guards could do it – even Luscheck, the slovenly, unshaven, _chiseling_ _double-dealer_.

Lorna was so angry, so vehement about who Luscheck really was after Nicky had told her what he’d done, why she was sent to Max, and the way those words hissed from her lips was frightening. Finally, she could see that wicked hot blood, the likes of which the name _Morello_ promised, and it was kind of hot.

But he wouldn’t. Course he wouldn’t. He’d fucked her over once, and he wouldn’t do it again. Surprisingly, his conscience was a deciding factor in the matter. Something she wouldn’t have guessed.

A shot would establish normalcy. Getting sent back to her cell would establish normalcy. She’d passed Carol and Barb’s now lifeless, bloody bodies lying there so pathetically on the floor, but she’d seen enough dead people during her time in this life that it never roused a reaction out of her.

The difference was that murder was more purposeful, deliberate even in the way of death; murder was an act of intent, what happens as a result is planned for. A drug overdose was not, is not. But neither one had room for regret. Had no moment afterwards to feel. Feel anger, feel sadness, feel disbelief. Feel shock. Feel another person’s touch, the same one you’d only just felt hours before when everything was fine…you couldn’t feel anything at all.

Nicky wasn’t dead, she wasn’t dying, but Lorna could be. For all she knew, it wasn’t Nicky’s touch that was her last, or the kicking of little Kitten Carmine but it was one of those guards who didn’t know shit about babies and pregnant women or the female anatomy, one of those guards whose close colleague _fucking suffocated_ that beautiful, sweetheart-faced, baby _Washington_ – _bless her soul._

She flashed back to Lorna’s wildly connotative assumptions based on semantics and skin color alone. _A black French._ There was so much wonder in her voice, so much hope, the type a child carries with them when debating the existence of lonesome Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. _‘Do people like her really exist? Or was she just a figment of our imagination this whole time?’_

It hurt to think about that. It hurt to think about her at all when she could be dead. _Jesus, this was what Taystee must have felt. Fuck me._

It took every ounce of self restraint not to have that mental picture in her head of Lorna, beautiful, 1950s Hollywood copycat Lorna, lying still on a bed in medical, the sheets unchanged, her skin even paler than usual, dry and cracking as mortality takes its toll, her physical body small and weak without the liveliness of muscle and tissue and vein; dead and gone before Nicky had even scored the winning run in that stupid, _fucking_ war upending kickball game. And her girl would have been so proud.

She’d say _slugger should be your nickname now._ With a flirty little wink that would leave Nicky no choice but to grab her by the cheeks and kiss her, _hard._ Shots wouldn’t concern her. Nothing would. Not with those cottony, sugared lips on her chapped ones. She really missed that lipstick. It reminded her a little bit of Harley Quinn. Or a brunette Sienna Miller. It really depended on the mood they were going for.

Her heart sank but continued to beat in a place within her that she had no idea existed before now. She hadn’t accessed it when her mother died two years ago, or when she lodged that heroin inside her vein again for the first time in three years without the slightest bit of delicacy or thought. She’d wanted to feel the pain then, concentrate on that rush of it and nothing else, of the pain that came with allowing yourself to slip. It didn’t allow a place for grief, though, but this newly-entranced cavern of herself did. And right now, she was _drowning_ in it. Darkness was entrapping her, worst case scenarios made _even worse._

They would never be ‘going for’ any sort of mood again. Not flirty, not slutty, not _Fifty Shades of Grey_ (she’d read that one day per recommendations a plenty and _damn_ ).

Nicky chocked back a sob and fought the urge to scream again at the top of her lungs. Okay. She was almost there. She just had to turn the corner. She could do that.

“Lorna!” she screamed, but her voice was long gone now and so it was nothing like that. It was more of a gasp, breathy with disbelief, showing that she was frightened, _scared out of her fucking mind_ , to face what she may.

 _The love of her sad, pathetic prison-ridden fucking life_ without breath in her lungs, without moisture on those lips or pheromones emanating from snowy flesh _. Death._ She had to be prepared to see death. And she wasn’t fucking prepared. She would _never_ be fucking prepared.

What she saw was Lorna’s gaze trained on her, but _not_ on her. Her skin was waxy, and her face was gaunt, mouth a thin, dry line that was quivering ever so softly. _Fuck._ Her lips were _quivering_. Which meant her mouth was _moving_ and then _holy shit_ she was _talking._

“Nicky…oh god, Nicks I – “

She was _alive._ _Fuckin A_. Alive. Alive. Alive. _Alive_

“Lorna, _my sweet baby Lorna_ …” she cooed, gently pushing her hair back from her face and kissing her forehead, her lips barely making contact for fear of hurting her, somehow.

“You’re in medical. Why _the fuck_ – whatever, I’m just so glad you’re okay. Is – “

The million-dollar question now – _is the fetus okay?_ – died on her lips because once she looked down and saw the blood, most of it dry now, spreading out from her pelvic region there would be no winning answer. He was most definitely not okay. And that broke Nicky into a million other pieces, still not fully back together from the shock of Lorna, and now, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever be able to put herself back together again.

The tears came without permission. And kept coming. And kept coming. Silent, mournful tears for the life that was lost, a life that hadn’t even started, a life that Nicky _loved,_ a _person_ that Nicky loved, who didn’t even get a chance.

A chance to show her that he could be more than them, that there was more for him than a mom in prison and a _junky addict liar_ ; that there was more for him than his deadbeat dad who, right now, was probably halfway across the country.

Nicky hadn’t had the heart to tell his wife. His numbers weren’t in service and he was probably fucking some blonde, skinny, low-rate whore. Stuff like that, like cheating and deceit from the male population, kept the world turning, but a baby dying – _Lorna’s baby_ , would stop it on its axis.

“Oh gosh, hon. Why are you crying? Hey, _hey, Nicky,_ stop, stop, stop.”

Lorna’s voice was what made her get a grip. Lorna was here. Lorna hadn’t left her.

“Christ, I’m sorry, kid. I shouldn’t be snivelling like this.”

Nicky let out a deep sigh, trailing her sweaty palm along Lorna’s just as warm cheek.

“You’re _alive_ and _you_ are the one who lost the baby, not me. I’m being a selfish bitch, I am a _selfish bitch.”_

Lorna’s eyebrows furrowed, her mouth puckered. It was confusion. She looked confused.

“What – lost the – oh, oh!”

Lorna giggled, it was faint, subdued, and there was a little bit of humor in it. _Jesus, maybe she was a fucking psycho._

“Lorna,” Nicky deadpanned. “What the fuck.”

Lorna grabbed her hand in hers, kissed her knuckles three times over and laughed against her skin.

“I didn’t lose the baby, hon. The doctors did a _caesarian section_ and she survived. Kitten came out a little blue but with all four paws kicking.”

Nicky didn’t comprehend what she’d said at first.

She’d noticed the way that Lorna had said _caesarian section_ was oddly verbatim, like it had come straight from the mouth of the doctor and into hers, her lips forming the word with a bit of struggle. Despite being a fake nurse for a few days, medical terms were never Lorna’s speed.

Then, she’d heard _Kitten_ and _blue_ and her heart nearly stopped, but the smile on Lorna’s face, was strung out but triumphant and did not match the feeling of grief. Of _death._

Then, she’d caught one other thing.

“Did you say _she?_ As in a _girl?”_

Lorna nodded. “That’s right, kiddo. I did.”

Then she grimaced, and Nicky wondered if she was experiencing any discomfort, suddenly hyper aware and watchful of every sensation in Lorna’s body as if it were her own. She placed a hand softly onto hers, rubbing careful circles. “You okay, kid?”

Lorna groaned in response. “See? I _knew_ it would only be cute when you said it.” 

Nicky wanted to laugh. And this time she did. It was actually kind of obnoxious. “Oh my _god_. That’s why you made that face? _Jesus_ , Lorn, I thought you were in massive pain or something.”

“Oh,” Lorna laughed too, quieter still. “No. Your ex best friends Mr. and Mrs. Opioid…yeah, they’re treating me good. _Very good,_ _indeed._ ”

“Holy hell, Lorn. You’re high?”

Lorna giggled, shrugging her shoulders as best she could and with a coy little grin she placed a kiss onto Nicky’s fingertips.

“I’d say yes. I’m pain-free and my honey’s here and my baby girl is here and everyone I love except my husband is right here in this room. With me. Here.”

 _Shit._ The fact that she was high was more obvious now that it had been disclosed and talked about and suddenly, Nicky made a snap decision. She would handle this herself. Lorna would take it better right now than after the drugs wore off.

“Lorna…Lorn…I have to tell you something. Please, baby, don’t freak out.”

Lorna looked at her strangely. “Why would I?”

“I – uh – Vinny he – “

“He left me. High and dry. Hon, that’s old news.”

Nicky stared at her blankly, watching her blink, once, twice, three times in as many seconds, her eyes dry and void of tears.

“Excuse me?”

But Lorna pressed on, acting as though Nicky hadn’t even spoken at all, past telling her some shocking revelation that she somehow already knew about.

“He couldn’t do it. Said he couldn’t deal with a cuckoo bird like me, called me a nutjob, a lunatic, every other word for _crazy_ that’s in the books. I wish Chapman were here. She could give you a list of those – uh – eh – _syn-anemones_. I miss that girl.”

“ _Synonyms,”_ Nicky pressed gently, because she couldn’t help herself.

She was a bit of a pretentious dick when it came to knowledge, because as a former druggie, she’d prided herself very little on knowledge, past which connections were worth their time and which were a waste of it.

Still, Lorna continued to act like she hadn’t spoken, and now Nicky couldn’t help but hear a heavy, sleepy slur blanketing her words, but she was still as vivacious as ever, bubbly and sweet with a childlike inhibition that sometimes got her into trouble, all while it attains peoples’ sympathy. _Lorna Morello as the Comeback Kid._

Nicky smiled to herself, listening to Lorna babble on. _Oh, kid, how I love you._

“And so, when Vinny was being dragged out by the guards and yelling some very bad things at me I – “

“Wait,” Nicky zoned back into her drug-induced chatter at what was, very clearly, a moment in which she was suddenly lost. “What?”

She should have been paying more attention. But who could blame her? When there was talk about Vinny, Nicky was out of the picture. It’s just how it was. And so, she’d learned to block it out. Just enough so Lorna wouldn’t catch on to what she was doing. It didn’t work this time.

“ _Nicky,_ were you even _listening?_ Obviously not.”

She clucked her tongue, a habit Nicky knew she’d picked up from her, and that made her smile even wider, despite the embarrassed blush that skittered in patches around her neck, those which Lorna was now staring at.

“Agh,” she flicked the wrist which had the IV buried inside a vein.

“Are you kidding me, hon? I just blurted out my feelings towards you like I’m Alicia Silverstone – please tell me you’ve seen _Clueless?_ – and all you can say is _‘what?_ ’”

Nicky couldn’t help it, she rolled her eyes and trailed her tongue around her gums, sinking into each cheek and back.

“Babe, _Clueless_ is a movie for the straightest, whitest chicks. _Of course_ , I’ve seen it. My boyfriend Brock took me to a drive-in theatre and we drank soda from the same straw and shared popcorn from the same bag. Except, he did let me get my own pack of _Skittles_. What a _gentleman_ , right?”

Lorna’s eyes narrowed, and Nicky smirked.

“Fuck off,” she very nearly spat, and she was so taken aback at Lorna’s intense reaction to a ball-busting that she let out a sharp, inadvertent gasp and was suddenly on the defense.

“Well, fuck you too, then.”

Now it was Lorna’s turn to gasp. Her eyes filled with tears and Nicky was once again reminded how sensitive her _little chick_ could really be.

“Oh, kid, _no_ , it’s – I’m _sorry_ , I didn’t mean – “

Nicky stopped abruptly, her hand paused on Lorna’s cheek, her thumb wiping subtly still at the tears threatening to break the dam loose.

Lorna took a breath and bit her bottom lip, her gaze never leaving Nicky’s. It was soulful and wide, but there was relief there, too. Acceptance.

“No. No, no. That was me. My bad. This is just something really huge for me to be saying to you and you were being such an ignoramus about it.”

Just as Nicky opened her mouth to finish apologizing, Lorna stopped her.

“No. There will be more time for your shit later, Nichols.

All Nicky could do was nod.

Lorna looked calmer now, clearheaded and there was an expression of tranquil satisfaction on her face that could only be pinpointed to motherhood. Nicky thought that it just might be her favorite look. Even her O face couldn’t beat this.

“I love you. I love you, and I always have. Vinny…Vinny was a placeholder. He was the husband I thought I was supposed to have, the man I thought I was supposed to adore. But the truth, hon, is that I adore a woman. I adore you and that has never changed, not even for a second.”

Lorna reached out with both hands and put them on either side of her face. Meanwhile, Nicky could barely breathe. She couldn’t look away, either. Couldn’t stop hearing the words being said to her; all of it _euphoric_ , like birds chirping, like trees whistling in the distant forest, like people whom once held grudges now being friendly and happy, Lorna being _okay,_ alive and well, just like her baby _girl_. It was all so _unbelievable._

And for a minute, Nicky thought it was just be a trick being played on her, that it would all fade to dust once she tries to grasp it in her palms. But it didn’t.

When Nicky leaned in and pressed her mouth against Lorna’s, she didn’t pull away, didn’t voice her qualms about being married, didn’t shake her head and say _‘no – no’_ just as Nicky deftly slipped in her tongue, and she didn’t make her stop when Nicky said, _‘let me take care of you.’_ None of it.

When they broke apart, Nicky lay her forehead against Lorna’s. She could feel the crinkles of laughter indented in her flesh and had a strange feeling she had ones that matched. Her smile was so large it was like it was holding a promise to rip her face in two equal halves, and Lorna’s was identical.

“Jesus Christ, I love you, Lorna _Morello_.”

Lorna laughed, threading their fingers together. “You know, for a Jew, you sure take the Lord’s name in vain quite a lot. I love you too, Nicole Nichols.”

Nicky fought the urge to slap her upside the head but as soon as it appeared, the urge subsided.

She’d remembered telling Lorna that her name was really _Nicole_ in a moment of pure, unadulterated weakness (like _fucking_ Rizzo in the back of that beat-up Buick begging Kinicki to call her fucking _Betty_ ).

The girl was sucking on her neck like a vampire out for blood and it made her feel loved in this stupid, teenaged lustful sense of the word; not to mention that they were completely sloshed to smithereens, curtesy of Washington’s hooch, which suspended everything, every limb, touch, breath, in a pool of some weird concoction these people were content to call alcohol.

Some actually liked it. Nicky was not one of those people, and neither was Lorna, as told by the fucking adorable face she makes that’s close to a grimace but not quite. But _Drunk Lorna_ was also _Horny Lorna_ and who would she be if she were to deny herself of that little treat?

It was a moment of _coitus drunkus_ she’d told Lorna afterwards, _\- “see, Lorn, pig-Latin isn’t all that hard.”_

At this, Lorna had snorted her laughter in response and Nicky had buried her face in the crook of her damp shoulder, which was still vibrating from laughter, and nearly cried like a little _weakling._

Nobody else knew that here. Not even Red. At least Lorna had been sort of nice about it, fucking Resnikov would’ve had a field day.

 _Nicole Nichols._ _Fuck,_ her parents really must have hated her. It must’ve not been an act after all.

“Okay,” Lorna had said after her laughter finally stopped.

“I promise I’ll never call you Nicole again. But in my defense, you told me to. You were pretty insistent actually, _Miss Drunk-y Pants.”_

Nicky had grumbled. “Yeah, well that’s ‘cause you were on hot pursuit of my neck and I felt - “

She had wanted to say _loved,_ _cared for_ , _safe,_ but none of that came out. “Drunk. I felt drunk.”

“You can say that again, hon,” Lorna had mumbled but Nicky felt the smile against her skin as Lorna returned to lavishing her neck like she had been before.

Now, when the name _Nicole_ came from in between Lorna’s lips, she felt as though she could finally tell her all of those words she’d wanted to use that day in the chapel. _‘I feel loved and cared for by you, I feel safe because of you. You are my world.’_

Suddenly, a cry pierced the silence and a nurse – a male nurse, notably, came rushing in from where he must have been - _god knows where, come to think of it, what kind of maximum security facility is **this** shit show?_ Nicky thought, but was immediately thankful for his absence then and his presence now.

He went over to the bassinet that was in the corner of the room and with a start, Nicky remembered why they were here and what led them to this moment in the first place.

The nurse placed the baby on Lorna’s chest and just like a natural born mother would, she took her gratefully, cooing sweet nothings at her all while pulling down the side of her hospital gown and exposing herself to this helpless man and Nicky, who was ogling just a little because _come on_ , those nipples _really were_ the size of helipads and suddenly, Nicky didn’t trust herself to remain professional.

Lorna gave her a look, like she knew exactly what she was thinking, and shook her head with a subtle smirk.

“Hey there, eyeballs,” she rasped, and Nicky began to think that maybe the thoughts going through her mind weren’t so pure either. “I’m just feeding my baby. This peepshow is not for your viewing pleasure.”

“Are you sure, kid? Cause I mean, it’s just hanging right out.”

Lorna didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. It wasn’t her body she was enraptured by now, but the look on her face. It was filled with such an unsurmountable love and tenderness and suddenly, Nicky understood the definition of _unconditional_ and finally, after thirty-one years, understood what that looked like. What that felt like.

“Her name’s Anya.”

“Oh?” Nicky was confused. _What happened to Carmine?_ She hadn’t minded that name.

Still smiling down at the baby, Lorna said “it means _‘bringing goodness’_ in Russian. You know, for Red.

“She brought so much goodness into my life, the whole family – like you said, she made me cookies - and I think I forgot that when I came here, and I got caught up in all this C Block/ D Block stuff…And I just want to show her that I love her you know, in a way that I can, now. Besides, I would never, under no circumstance name a baby Red.”

Nicky laughed. “I get it. I think it’s beautiful. Red will flip when she hears about it, no doubt.”

Lorna nodded. “Anya Carmine Morello. My little Kitten.”

Nicky stared at the baby for a minute, marvelling just how much the little peanut looked like her mother, thankfully at that. She had sharp cheekbones, indented in soft, baby skin, with gorgeous dark eyes and a bald head that would all too soon be home for downy curls that match.

“She’s beautiful, Lorn,” Nicky murmured, kissing the side of her head. “I’m so proud of you, kid.”

Her daughter came at a price though, and Nicky saw that just by looking at her. She had bruises under her eyes, her lips were colourless and bare, and her hair was unkempt, in matts that would only come out in the shower. Still though, Lorna Morello was the most beautiful woman she has ever seen, and always will be. No other person would ever come close. Except, maybe Anya.

“I love you,” Lorna mouthed in response, her voice muted with exhaustion and spent adrenaline.

Nicky smiled and kissed her lips this time, then the baby’s aromatic little head. Babies really did have that newborn baby smell. People weren’t making that shit up.

“I love you, too.”

“Nicks?” she said suddenly, and Nicky nodded at her.

“Yeah, babe? Wait, before you say anything else – uh – so you know, my dad, he – uh – he used to call me Nick. Still does, I guess and – uh –

 _Jesus, Nichols_ , she berated herself, _stop stuttering!_

“What?” Lorna asked her, picking up on her strained delivery. “You don’t like it? I won’t call you that anymore if – “

“No, no, Lorn. That’s not it. Sorry, I – uh – god this is dumb. What I’m trying to say is I like it because it sounds feminine and uh – “

“Yeah? Well then I’ll keep calling you that, then.” Lorna smiled at her, sweet and patient.

“Good,” Nicky breathed, breathless now. “It means that I’m your girl. Thank you. Thank you for letting me be your girl, kid.”

Lorna’s eyes softened, and it looked like she was going to start crying again. “And you know I’m your girl too, right?”

“Of course. You’ve always been my girl, Veda Sultenfuss.”

“Oh geez,” Lorna chuckled, and Nicky kissed her again. She couldn’t help it.

There was a minute of silence in which they just enjoyed each other’s company and the sound of the baby fussing slightly before Lorna interrupted it.

“Do you want to hold your baby, Momma?”

“What?” Nicky asked, but Lorna was already all but thrusting Anya into her arms.

Relaxing back onto the bed, Lorna smiled. “I want to do this with you, Nicks. If you’re up for it.”

“Is that really your way of asking me to raise a child with you? Way to get straight to the punch, Lorn.”

She laughed, and Nicky grinned.

“I’ve done enough _beating around the bushes_ lately as Red would say, don’t you think?”

“Kid, I love this baby more than I love myself, or Red, or _anyone but you._ I was ready to raise this little peanut the second those tests lit up like Times Square on Christmas Eve. All you had to do was ask.”

With a smile of her own, Lorna nodded tearfully. “Well, I’m asking.”

“And I’m saying yes.”

What separated the two of them from a searing kiss was Anya’s cries – _their_ _daughter’s_ cries.

“I’ve got her,” Nicky whispered, taking the baby again from off of Lorna’s chest, where she was placed after her vitals were taken, and began to sing, softly.

_“When I’m stuck with a day that’s grey, and lonely, I stick out my chin and grin and say oh!”_

Nicky made a face at the baby, hoping Anya would laugh, but knowing full well that she wouldn’t, that it was impossible at just hours old, although it was worth a shot. It did stop her cries though, dulling them to mere whimpers.

_“The sun will come out tomorrow, so you gotta hang on till tomorrow…”_

Then there was quiet and so she stopped singing, shooting a secret grin at Lorna like they were the greatest parenting team in the entire prison. And they probably were, given the lack of prisoners in that particular pool. But whatever.

“You’re perfect,” Lorna mumbled, and Nicky saw right then just how tired the poor girl really was. She was barely hanging on.

“Oh babe,” Nicky cooed, “I’m the lucky one.”

Lorna shook her head, but Nicky wasn’t sure if it was to refute the statement or just a muscle twitch that her half-conscious brain couldn’t make her body suppress.

“Remember when you said that you were afraid of not doing right by Red? With your case and all?”

“Mhm,” Nicky hummed, straining to hear over the waves of descending sleep sluicing over Lorna’s vocal cords.

“Well, you never have to be afraid of not doing right by your daughter. You will do right by her, just like you do right by me, every single day of your life. You got me, Nichols?”

“I hear you, Morello,” Nicky told her, putting one arm around her shoulders and gently stroking underneath Anya’s little knees. As she watched a grin settle on Lorna’s face, she left a smack-inducing kiss on her cheek.

“And I love you _so, so much.”_


	6. Let's Talk About Sex, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-prison. Mild smut.

She didn’t know what made them think of it. It wasn’t like they were that couple who got mushy and sentimental at two in the morning, both awake, both for reasons that were elusive now and seemed stupid in the light of opening their eyes.

They weren’t that couple who reminisced about the _best of the best_ or the _worst of the worst,_ laying next to each other, facing the ceiling, brains plagued with the forgotten tasks of the day.

Whether that meant they’d been neglected on purpose, like cleaning the bathroom – Lorna, one-year, seven months post-prison, now hated the chore with a passion, just because she _could,_ because she had a _choice,_ or vacuuming the threadbare carpets in their apartment, all of one bedroom in the ragtag part of Queens.

Or tasks that legitimately slipped their minds – like picking Anya up from daycare (if the teenaged goody-goody they paid minimum wage to constituted as a daycare) even if it was _one time, and no more, promise,_ Lorna was never, ever going to let Nicky live it down. It was a permanent black spot on her Mommy Record. _Shame on you._

It remained though, that they weren’t _that_ couple. It was a fact. A well-known fact. The damn Vause-Chapman’s were proud to be _that_ couple (and _yes_ , those two legally changed their name after Vause got out, and _yes,_ Nicky laughed until she gagged, and Lorna put a hand to her heart and awed for five minutes straight).

It was just how it was. And the life of Nicky Nichols and Lorna Morello, was nothing like _that._

For starters, although the name _Nicky Nichols_ made Nicky violently cringe from the inside out, Nicky Morello wasn’t much better, it didn’t put that _thump-thump_ inside her chest like she’d thought it would for years, and instead made her grimace, and Lorna was adamant that changing her name would be a disservice to her family and to _Morellos_ everywhere, although Nicky had a hunch that there was enough in the world that they wouldn’t be missing one.

Nicky also didn’t force her though, because they weren’t _that_ couple either. Or so they’d like to think.

As it turns out, both women were shoddy judges of character, but as past criminals, was that really a surprise? No. It wasn’t.

Just as it wasn’t a surprise that tonight, after Anya was down, when Nicky tried to initiate a little something _(sex, she tried to initiate sex, let’s not sugar coat it here, folks)_ and Lorna grunted, literally _grunted,_ like some socially obtuse boyfriend – which by the way, as Nicky pointed out, she did not sign up for - and turned to her other side.

Nicky also pointed out that Vause never had to go through this with Chapman, which was mistake number one. Lorna’s words were cold, straight-to-the-point, accompanied by a glare, _‘Piper and Alex aren’t raising a baby in their terrible twos and neither one of them is four months pregnant.’_

 _Was she stupid?_ She had to have been, that, or Nicky was so desperate to get herself laid that she just ignored the threatening ire to Lorna’s voice. She tried again. _Dumb._

“But, babe, you’re so hot when you’re pregnant…even hotter than you normally are.”

_So dumb._

“Leave me alone, Nicky. I’m exhausted.”

Lorna sighed, doing nothing else extra to acknowledge her presence there beside her.

 _Nope. Nuh-uh._ Nichols doesn’t get the brush off. She does the brushing off. Even where her wife was concerned.

“But baby, _really_ , I can’t resist you, you know that…you’re like – you’re like the head cheerleader and I’m the quarterback…”

Nicky began combing her fingers through Lorna’s hair, her voice heavy with sex, twirling strands around and around, with her mouth purposefully positioned near her ear, speaking slowly, seductively, like they were the leading roles in a film noir.

Again, Lorna grunted. “You’ve really been watching too many movies.”

Ah. There was the bait. Hook, line and sinker. Except, it didn’t really work that way. Lorna was the unwitting one. But also, the one who’d dangled the bait so that made Nicky the fish and – oh, _never mind._ _Idioms were stupid._

“Just one. The kind that _never_ , _ever_ ends.”

As she was saying this, Nicky began trailing kisses down Lorna’s body, from her chest and all the way down her legs. She’d gotten to just below her pelvic bone– she wasn’t hasty, could never be hasty with her girl because if she was, it would be a guaranteed end; Lorna wasn’t cheap, she wasn’t a hussy, and if she felt like she was being treated as such, she’d shut you down faster than you could even _think_ about getting blue clit.

Like blue balls. Except, you know, for women. With that glorious bundle of nerves. Fun fact, the clitoral plate is the size of a _fucking dinner plate_.

Nicky had told Lorna that once, after a particularly rough and tumble roll around in bed that had them both goners not long after they’d started, and she’d went red. She was so embarrassed and sweaty with that after-sex glow, which made Nicky pin her back down to the bed and fuck her clean of any and all reservations she’d had about discussing her needs.

For _fuck sakes_ , all women had them, some were just more _vocal_ about it than others. After that, Lorna was _very_ vocal. She couldn’t afford not to be. If she didn’t say what she wanted, Nicky wouldn’t give it to her. Simple.

Right now, for example, she was being very clear about her needs. _Sleep._ It was not the first time Nicky refused to give it to her. Some would say that this was going back on her word _– ask and you shall receive –_ but she saw it as an opportunity. When her wish wasn’t being respected, Lorna got upset. She got _angry._

That was when they had their best.

“Fu-fuck, Nicky! Just let me sleep, alright? Baby needs sleep. I need sleep. We _all_ need sleep!”

Lorna shoved her over to her own side and before Nicky could protest, she put a body pillow between them. She didn’t say anything else, not ‘ _goodnight’,_ not _‘I love you, hon’_ or ‘ _stay on your own side or the next body part of yours that tries to come at me is getting cut off.’_

That one was her personal favorite. And that’s also how she knew that it wasn’t really over.

_Score._

“You know,” she whispered into Lorna’s ear, leaning her elbow on the body pillow between them and making an indent. It was less for comfort and more to piss Lorna off. “Angry sex is our best sex.”

“What!?” Lorna turned to face her, glowering at her arm on the pillow. Like Nicky knew she would. “It _is not_! What would that say about our relationship, huh?”

Nicky shrugged, a glimmer in her eye. This was really riling her up. Better than expected. _Nice job, Nichols Your prize is great sex tonight. Ata girl._

“Lots of things,” she said. “Let’s calm down for a minute and think about it, shall we? A little walk down memory lane? Clear our heads.”

See, terrible judge of character. _Tremendously shitty._ They were now _that_ couple, laying in bed, late at night, side by side but not touching. _Talking._ Talking about the past with this particular, pressing fondness to try and get a handle on things. _To get back to where things were._

They were like a couple on the eve of signing their divorce papers, or the couple discussing the possibility of different living arrangements, or how to tell the kids about their impending separation. This though, was not that. This was all _sexual._ And it wasn’t about what went wrong and where, it was about what was _not happening._ And _why._

“Jesus, Nicky,” Lorna moaned, crushing the pillow over her head. “I just want to fucking sleep. Pussy licking can wait until tomorrow. Really, it can.”

 _Pussy licking._ It was headless. It was crude. It was incredibly naughty. And Lorna was a bitch. A fucking bitch. Whom she loved dearly, honestly and truly.

She had no right to say those words, in that order, in that context, to her right now. And she knew that, too,

“The fact that you used those words to describe what we so love to do when our baby – _babies_ – are asleep proves to me that you know, Lorn, _you know,_ that it can’t. So why lie?”

“ _Fuck,_ Nicky, I’m not lyin. I just fucking need fucking sleep. It’s been a long day. You know Anya’s had a cold for days now. She’s barely sleeping. _I’m_ barely sleeping because she’s barely sleeping. _Fucking_ let me _sleep_ , alright?”

Nicky raised her eyebrows. There was this _look_ in Lorna’s eyes that was just skimming along the surface of the mild contempt she held. It dilated her pupils and made the green speck hidden in her irises intensify.

It said that she was ready for the taking. It was calling her out on her utter _bullshit_ that spewed from those childishly red lips. Smudged in one corner and the color half gone. Still hot as fuck though. All of it together was…well, that’s what it was.

“That was a lot of _fucks_. I’d say someone has something on the brain, hm?”

An eyeroll.

“Come on, Lorn,” Nicky volleyed, “let’s just have a little chat. Circle some memories for awhile, yeah? I’ve barely talked to you all day and this is how you treat me?”

“Fine,” Lorna agreed, and it took all she had not to jump for joy.

“Okay, so, lets do this. I can count on one hand the times we’ve had angry sex. Well, let me rephrase, the times we’ve had angry sex and actually got off doing it.”

“When have we ever not – “

“That’s besides the point,” Nicky interjected, waving her hand. “Help me out here.”

“What – no, I have no idea which times you could be referring to.”

“Yeah, you do, kid. Come on, think about it. I’ll start us off. Litchfield. Make Out Alley.”

“We weren’t angry when we – “

“ _Oh_ yes we were,” Nicky nodded her head. “Trust me. When Red paired us off to look for a place to redo the garden?”

Lorna copied her nod, but it was slower. “Right. _Sweet N Low._ I remember now.”

There was a slight smile, well, more of a smirk, upturning the corners of her lips just a little. Teasing.

Nicky nuzzled her neck, kissed the edge of that smirk. “Yeah, you do.”

…

Lorna remembered that one well. The way Nicky had all but forced her against the shed, with just enough strength so she could get out of the situation if she really wanted to. When her hand dove into Lorna’s khakis it wasn’t playing. _She_ wasn’t playing.

Her fingertips reached just where they needed to, fondling over the spot just where they should’ve been and – no. _That’s not right._ They _shouldn’t_ have been and even now, she feels guilty, even after her and Vinny’s separation, because _holy hell_ , as Nicky’s lips ghosted over hers and her hand resumed its deliberate, territory-marking, target-practice motions, there was almost a moment of letting go.

As Nicky pushed one way, causing her spine to press harder into the shed and her vision to blacken with lust, Lorna pushed back, pushed her away, _screamed_ at her because there was no other way. It was one extreme or the other.

They fought. Nicky pushed her, sent her into the fence. She didn’t push back. Knew in her heart of hearts that while she would lay a hand on her, she would _never_ hurt her. Not for real. She attacked her in her most vulnerable of places, cursing that brain of hers that was hellbent on destroying her, destroying every ounce of happiness that she could ever have, and it wasn’t like she didn’t know that, so Lorna fought harder. Her addiction. _Junkie_. Unreliable. _Liar._

It was all so fucked up. Mentally, _she_ was fucked up. Nicky not all that much better. Once they’d drained their voices, exhausted their anger, with Nicky going the direct route, telling her just _how_ fucked up she was, and while acknowledging it, Lorna made sure that she knew that _she_ was just as fucked up. It was just a little less _debilitating._

Both of them had ruined their lives, by past decisions and current ones, and the difference was, one of them could _stop._

Nicky had curved her addiction, gotten clean, started fresh, more than once. There was the proof. _Where was the proof where she was concerned, huh?_

Nicky never asked the question but _there it was._ The answer was _nowhere. No how._ The only way she could be free of this was to get a _fucking_ brain transplant. And she didn’t trust the _fucking placebo_ doctors in here, no way.

In the heavy-breathed silence, Nicky asked another question. _“Wonder if she’s got family?”_

She said that she’d imagined her own mother getting that call, debated what was the better option, self-infliction or dying as helplessly as Poussey did.

Right then, Lorna knew that while the substance itself was out of her system, its abuse would never be. It would attack, attack, attack, until…until…nothing.

Until she was nothing but a person whose addiction played her until she could think of nothing else. Regret of not quitting earlier. Or getting her shit together quicker. As if it was so easy. As if she really cared enough to try. She’d had no one to do it for.

Because the one person she did have pulled away from her like she was a hot iron. A _sexy_ hot iron. But that was besides the point, and now, the guilt she felt over Vinny, over her _husband,_ and the _cheating,_ was nothing compared to the guilt she now felt for leaving Nicky to drown at the hands of her own self destruction. Lorna knew what that felt like. _She did._

_“Well that’s like asking if it would hurt less to get your leg cut off or your arm.”_

If Nicky left her with silence, she’d stand her ground. She’d find that strength, and its intensity she’d possessed only minutes ago and _walk away_. If she answered, if she said anything, anything at all, even a _hm_ that said she was thinking about it, for _real,_ then there was no way. She wouldn’t walk away. _Couldn’t._

_“You’re leg, obviously.”_

And this time, it was Nicky with her back pressed against a hard surface – the fence – as Lorna kissed her, put all of her weight onto her, not giving her the same wiggle room Nicky had been so gracious as to grant her.

There was no time for that. Lorna knew this was what she wanted, what Nicky wanted, and now, not giving in, fooling around with her famed platitudes of _‘I’m married’_ and _‘we can’t’_ was _stupid_. _Dumb_.

If they weren’t quick about it, Red, or someone, Alex or Piper, maybe, would catch ‘em or better yet, Lorna would have time to process her regret. Or lack thereof.

_“Shit, Nicky, am I a terrible person?”_

_“Nah, kid,”_ Nicky breathed out, heavily against her chest, her hair the only thing she could smell.

Citrus shampoo that was so _not_ Nicky even if she tried – she’d likely stolen hers again, but Lorna would let it slide – and some odorous, but oddly not bothersome combination of salt and fresh air. _Sweat._

_“You’re not.”_

Lorna applied more pressure with the heel of her palm, which made Nicky’s breath hitch as she tried to speak again, slower, as if what she was feeling, the sensations of her physical body, were a resisting force, pushing the words back down her throat.

_“You just know when to quit. A luxury that abated me – a **junky addict liar** – from the moment this fucking wonderful world showed its true colors. I couldn’t live in it. Not without something to get me through.”_

Lorna sighed into her hair, lips pressed against her scalp, her hand poised to get her there. And then, that was it. It was over.

 _“It’s you, kid,”_ Nicky blubbered with this unfamiliar nakedness, her voice stark but small so that it was almost juvenile. One last breath. Shaky and deep. _“You get me through.”_

The two of them shared a _real_ kiss after that, holding each other’s cheeks in their palms as though their skin was dandelion fuzz, to be blown haphazardly in amongst the garden with one, subtle, brush of the wind. They were cautious, aware of each and every sleight of hand, the most prominent being one working conscience, the both of them knowing well who it belonged to.

…

“Oh!” Lorna exclaimed suddenly now, her voice a shrill whisper in the dark. She grabbed Nicky’s hands and put her right one against her left boob. “I told you to take care of your patient, remember?”

Nicky laughed, giving her breast a squeeze. “Ha. Right. Actually, if I remember correctly, _and I do,_ because it is my favorite memory of all time – well _one_ of my favorites – you said, _‘fuck me.’_ Actually, you said _‘ **please** fuck me.’_

Lorna laughed too. “And you did. But were you still mad at me then?”

Nicky clucked her tongue, pushed a stray strand of hair behind Lorna’s ear with a smirk. “Oh, doll, I was _pissed_. But who am I to refuse a lady in need?”

…

Lorna knew the dream was out of the ordinary. She’d never lusted after mammals before, nor was she planning on starting now, but still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the blowhole was a metaphor - _right? Or was it something else like a – uh – simile? She got those ones confused a lot, honestly._ Was it a – she’d go with metaphor – for something else. For _someone_ else.

Vinny would never go down on her. Said it gave him the creeps to be at eye-level with a _– with a – ahem – a **vagina**_. Lorna couldn’t help it. She blushed profusely. Even the thought of the word made her lose her grip. It had always made Nicky laugh. _Nicky._ _Of course._

So, she had decided to find Nicky, to tell her about the dream, in hopes that with her _therapist_ mojo she could deduce it for her. _Deduce her worst fears._ Was that even the right way to say that? Oh well, she couldn’t care less, now. Nicky would know. But Nicky wasn’t here. _Where was she?_

It was not a metaphor. Or, it _was,_ but it was more like a metaphor for her _needs_. It wasn’t her _wants_ – _no sir_ – because if it was, she’d have to grapple with that and scold herself again and again until her thoughts were of her husband and _only her husband_ and _God help her_ , she had no time for that now, not in the middle of this riot, and _especially_ not with Nicky’s mouth placed firmly between her legs.

Not that she liked it. All that much. But then her mouth moved a certain way and lips suckled on a certain spot, and Lorna had cried out - _fuck me_ – actually _cried_ it, that wasn’t an exaggeration and she knew that because she could _hear herself_ and felt the _god damn vibrations_ of Nicky’s laughter and _seriously,_ both things were turning her on so much more than she cared to admit.

There was something about being taken care of this way, she had discovered, taken care of _sexually_ like this, _by a woman_ , that was so different than being with a man. The first time she’d been with Nicky it had taken her by surprise, the second time less so, and as it got to be routine, she’d found a primal beauty in it.

For starters, a woman’s mouth was softer, daintier, knew that part of you in a way that no man could ever even dream, and something about that, about that tenderness, that staggering certainty, left her breathless each and every time.

This time, their sex had started differently. This time, they had both been goaded by the other but not teased. Both were crystal clear in their intentions, but she was _weak_. She had always been weak. Ever since she was a little girl. _It was better to give in than to fight. To beg and be given than to say nothing and get nothing in return_.

So, when Nicky asked her, her voice low and grumbly, but still with that same slickness that often made her inhibitions turn to dust – _“you beggin’ me?’_ Lorna felt like her entire body was on fire, with Nicky’s hands all over her, with her breath hot against her face, asking her again, and right then, there was no other answer than the one that she knew Nicky wanted to hear.

Weak. Spineless. _Like a sea-urchin_.

 _“Jellyfish,”_ Nicky mumbled into her ear after it was over. Her breath, while it was still warm, was way less intense than it had been before this all started. The urgency was gone. The passion, a faded flame, with nothing left but whirls of smoke that carried a faint fragrance of unwashed bodies and humidity. _“Jellyfish don’t have spines. Spineless like a jellyfish. That’s the expression.”_

Well, whatever the expression was, she was certainly _that._ It wasn’t only that she’d had sex with Nicky, _oh no,_ that wasn’t the greatest offense. It was that she’d thoroughly enjoyed it.

When their clothes were off, thrown somewhere haphazardly in the room, Lorna was quick to grab onto anything, anything warm, anything soft, hands grazing along a supple chest, _her_ supple chest, while lips, _her_ lips, lazily kissed along her jawline, the aggression, the heat, channeled elsewhere.

Her hands were quick, rough in a different sense of the word, smooth and determined. They weren’t dry or calloused, but soft and petite, the furthest thing from a man. The furthest thing from her _husband._ From _Vinny._

With each sigh and moan that spilled out from her lips, she thought less about Vinny, cared much less about the lipstick whose pigment made unattractive rug rash across her chin, and hers now, too, because who did she wear that stuff for anyways?

Christopher, sure, maybe she had been, as she clung desperately to a ghost of a man who was never really there, but then who, before Vinny? Certainly not Nicky. She never cared for the stuff, for the choice that femininity suddenly becomes when you’re gay – a _lesbian_ – she never knew a way to say it that didn’t make her seem gauche. _So, **who** then?_

So, she’d let Nicky kiss it away, because it didn’t matter, did it? Not when she was with her. She knew that Nicky would think that she was still _fucking hot_ even with a paper bag over her head and a potato rug sack over her body. Because she _loved her_. And today, right now, that was more than enough. It was what she _needed._

Just before she came, she held on for a minute longer than usual to really look at the woman before her. The woman who would and did drop to her knees, quite literally, to give her everything she asked for and ever would ask for, without a second thought. It was just who she was. And she was so _beautiful._

She had the hair of a skinny pinprick of a teenager, had the eyes of a loveless, strung out club-crawler, the mouth of a pensive old man, complete with the eyebrow creases. At first glance, in her bland _prison mandated_ kakis with balled up fists and an intense stare you could never tell was sarcastic or not, she was, if anything, _intimidating._

Until you looked past all that. Until you get to know the girl who’s underneath it all. That girl, that woman, as cheesy as it may sound, is _beautiful_. When she lets you see that she’s self-conscious, that she’s sometimes vulnerable and sad and every other emotion in the rainbow, that she’s _human,_ _too._

There’s a special look she has, reserved for unadulterated happiness, that forms dimples that reach her eyes and a laugh that bursts free and reaches her soul, and its honestly and truly, the most _beautiful_ expression that settles on her face for only a fleeting moment or two, but never makes a home. But Lorna gets to see it now, as she flails and withers, comes completely undone at the mouth of yours truly. Seeing it almost makes her come again. And then she does, louder than the first time, and it doesn’t take either of them by surprise.

Besides, _what happens in a riot, stays in a riot._ She’s heard that saying somewhere. Somewhere else. Was it –

 _“Vegas, baby,”_ Nicky answers for her, kissing her hotly on the mouth once more. _“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. And this shithole,”_ she gestures around them, at the screaming commotion from their vintage point of the floor in another, sealed off, room. _“Is our Vegas.”_

…

Lorna sighed, snuggled into her chest. “You know what I’ve noticed?”

Nicky shrugged, wrapping her arms more firmly around her. “What’s that, babe?”

“That it’s not angry sex. It’s not our best. We don’t pull each other’s hair, call each other _bitches_ and _fuck faces_ or nothing like that.”

Nicky laughed, closing Lorna’s hand in her fist. Like she would their little girl’s. Only difference was she didn’t blow raspberries into her wife’s hand like she would Anya’s.

Man, their little _Kisa_ sure loved it. And suddenly, even though she was asleep in the very next room with a fistful of drool and her ducky to keep her company, Nicky missed her.

She shook her head, said the next thing that had come to her mind because if she didn’t, she’d end up asking Lorna to go wake her up and bring her to sleep in their room. For the third consecutive night. She knew that it wasn’t a healthy sleeping arrangement for a two-and-a-half-year-old who was already wreaking havoc in pursuit to be free of her crib, and so, she pushed the sudden yearning aside.

“You’ve been talking with Vause a little too often, haven’t you?”

Nicky smirked, giving a light tug on Lorna’s curls just for fun. And she smiled too, batting her hand away but then intertwined their fingers as soon as Nicky’s hand hit the bed again.

“Nah, just an observation.”

“Is that right. Well, tell me, Ms. Morello, what _else_ have you observed about our sex life?”

“That it’s love. It’s not anger. We don’t yell, we don’t scream, none of that. Haven’t you noticed, talking about it now, that we don’t fight during sex? Our sex always comes after. It’s like an apology.”

“So…” Nicky hummed, “it’s make - up sex.”

Lorna shook her head.

“No. It’s not. See, we fight. Big. Nasty, sometimes. And then we’re silent and sullen or whatever and then we take a minute to breathe. And it’s not totally an apology, out loud anyway, but you do something subtle or I do, like link my arm through yours, or you grab my hand and look at me a certain way and it’s done. Sometimes there’s words, sometimes there’s not and _that’s_ when the sex happens. _Those_ times are our best.”

Nicky thought about it for a minute. Looked back on those times, by the greenhouse, during the riot, and agreed. There was something about them. Something deeper and more appreciative than the others. It was like, in their movements and their whispers, they would remember what losing each other feels like, and think that they’d never have to go through it. Because right now, they’re intertwined.

She sighed, but it was blissful, and listened to Lorna squeal as she rolled her onto her back and was hovering above her in less than three seconds flat. It was a gift.

“So,” she asked her, a grin on her face. “You think this will be one of our best?”

Lorna giggled, reaching up to push a piece of hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear. Her breathing was loud. Heavy. “Kiss me and find out.”


	7. She Just Forgot, That's All.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Post 4x03

_“How did we become so broken?”_

_“We fell in love, and at some point, the people we love forgot to love us back.”_

…

Nicky hadn’t necessarily regretted pouring her heart out like that to Brooke SoSo, so stricken with grief that she didn’t know which way was up – or, would prefer it that way, it seemed like, but she did however, regret admitting it to herself.

She was in love. And love wasn’t _kind._ It wasn’t _virtuous_ or whatever sort of sappy, optimistic _shit_ that people said to keep their lives from fucking falling apart. Love was an addiction and since drugs didn’t kill her – _ha – why didn’t drugs kill her? They should’ve fucking killed her._

An OD was quick enough, you just slip into a sleep from which you never wake up. Simple. Done. Unrequited love was slow, painful, tore you limb from limb. She didn’t deserve that. _And yet,_ _here she was._

With her dark, lonely eyes that would look at her with such tenderness and trust, and long, wispy lashes that would graze gently against high cheekbones, it was physically obvious, and it was why Nicky had started calling her _kid_ in the first place. Her predominant expression was one that depicted neediness and loss, lethargic and slow on the uptake, but innocent, _oh so, innocent,_ just the same. Like a little _lamb._ _Whose skin was white as snow._

 _Oh kid,_ Nicky sighed, staring at her back, straight and smart in that white lab coat. _You have no idea, do you?_

With her equally dark hair that fell through on its promise of exoticism, wavy and still against the blades of her shoulders; the lipstick that was all too bold but made a lot of sense once hearing her speak because that accent, that _fucking accent,_ was this tortured cross of someone who spent half their time in the bustling depths of Brooklyn and the other half wrestling kangaroos on the beaches of Australia. She claimed that it was _Italian,_ and Nicky called _bullshit_ and without her name to prove it true, fucking _Lorna_ _Morello,_ it was likely that nobody else would believe her if she’d told them.

 _Fucking Lorna Morello_ , she was the _epitome_ of that girl in that _Nine Days_ song, you know the one, about the girl, and her story of how _she cried a river and drowned the whole world._

You know the one, because if you were anything like thirteen-year old Nicky Nichols, you bit your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood as that song, like _punk-rock meets Nickleback_ , blared deafly through your obnoxiously large headphones.

It was a time that she could never get back, the insanely obvious distaste for her parents, and anything orthodox, like Hebrew school or a hairbrush. If she could tell her thirteen-year old self anything, from where she sat now in a minimum-security prison in full blown riot mode, it would be this: _kid, living life like you don’t give a fuck about absolutely anything will get you nowhere. Nowhere good, anyway. Nowhere worth living. So, respect your parents okay? Respect their rules. Even though respect and common decency is not their cup of tea, it could be yours. It’ll be worth it in the end. Maybe someone out there will love you for it._

Nobody was loving her now, but maybe, _maybe,_ they could have. If she’d ended up somewhere else. Went to class and ran a brush through her hair every once and awhile like a good little girl. Didn’t get mixed up in all of the _fuck-up_ drugs, i.e. heroin, effectively aging her face twenty years. She could’ve been pretty. She could’ve been pretty like Lorna, not quite, but close at least, and then maybe, this _beautiful_ girl who _woke up with hope but only found tears,_ would love her back.

If it was only a fraction of how much she loved her, that was fine. She’d take it. She’d probably even die for it. Hadn’t had to think about that possibility until now, but she would. _No questions asked._

She wasn’t sure if Lorna had heard her confession, as spontaneous and inadvertent as it all was. She’d lost the bumbling somewhere along the way, maybe it had been the invincible effect of the drugs, or the alcohol that came before, but either way, she was glad that she had.

Her parents weren’t poor, but she was, at fifteen, barely holding down some lowlife fast food job where her manager was always two seconds away from firing her because of her _‘rude and dismissive attitude towards the customers’_ but never did, even when she fucked up _big_ ; because maybe, just maybe, he could see that she, with her hair that resembled a dog’s breakfast (her loving father’s words), her faint but permeating smell of general uncleanliness, and the pathetic slouch to her shoulders, was worthy of pity. At least she’d been worthy of _something._ By _someone._

Even if that someone was a forty-year old man with a paunchy beer belly and the breath of an alcoholic smoker. An interesting combination, really. Especially when the two of you are in the back kitchen, after hours, with his beefy hand up your skirt and his mouth so close to yours that you could taste it, could breathe it like it was your own breath, like choosing was an option. Did she mention that this man was her uncle? _Oh, no? Sorry._

She’d told herself it was for the drugs. It wasn’t the hard stuff yet, but it was something. Something to take the edge off. She’d figured that if it was going to happen anyways – her mother was either oblivious, or, and likely, after eight years, _wittingly_ oblivious, which was worse, but either way, he still did it in the house, and even though she could just _quit_ , she needed this job and it was likely nobody else would hire her in this town.

By now she had a reputation. The non-consensual sex with a hot and sweaty man was just simply a means to an end. A job. Money. The preference of her mother’s plain indifference rather than blithe distaste because _this girl_ threw her _only brother_ in the slammer where he would be ass-raped over and over again. Forget that _this girl_ was her _daughter._

_Your ‘friends’ Amy (that was such an innocent name, like a poodle-skirted cheerleader), and Tegan were waiting outside, loitering near the petrol station. They needed it, too. You couldn’t let them down. You guys were going to smoke it in the playground near your house, on the carousel like a bunch of cliched misfit stoners in the movies. You thought it was cool. And besides, Tegan might love you. He hadn’t said so directly, but you could tell. So, this was all worth it, not even for Amy, but for you, and for Tegan, because before you know it, it won’t just be his joint he’s sharing with you, or his Drambuie and root beer. It was only a matter of time._

Weeks later, after she’d caught Amy and Tegan making out on that park bench during one of their ‘scheduled’ nights, and had a down-low abortion, she’d realized that she was really into _Amy_ and _totally gay,_ and that was when her whole life fell apart. Or her real life started. _Take your pick_. Even now, sixteen years later, she didn’t know what the right answer was.

Because, just like Amy, Lorna didn’t love her. Just like Amy, Lorna was into boys with the taut torsos and with the coarse hair trailing a straight stretch from their bellybutton to their pelvic bone and, as it was rumored, beyond. _And who was she, huh?_ She could never measure up to that.

She couldn’t when she was a spindly, little Jewish girl, gone thirteen and begrudgingly celebrated a bat mitzva, as out of place at fifteen as she had been then; and she couldn’t now, at thirty-one, halfway meeting the _dumbass_ societal standard of _lesbian equals butch_ , wasting what life she’d salvaged from the depths of a heroin addiction in prison, where she only fit in because she was part of the majority: gay, criminal, and _stuck._

She was stuck here, in this damn place, and couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t do anything about the fact that Lorna didn’t love her back. Maybe she’d heard her say it, out loud for the first time – as far as she knew, but _Drunk Nicky_ was another story altogether - and maybe she hadn’t. It all came down to if she was willing to risk either possibility.

Before she could make that decision for herself, she noticed Lorna staring. Not being a _total space cadet_ , like usual, but _at her._

“Hon I…”

She also noticed that they were now the only two in the pharmacy, alone, the queue of people had dwindled to zero. _Who’s the space cadet now, Nichols?_

And she desperately wanted Lorna to just keep quiet, to not say anything, to let her live in the fantasyland she has the luxury of inhabiting, for just awhile longer; maybe until the end of her sentence, providing she didn’t get any more time for stupid shit, so that when she got out, she wouldn’t ever have to see her again, come face to face with heartbreak in form of a lithe, quirky, beautiful woman, her accent languorous, making Nicky feel like, in the sultriest of moments, she was fucking a barmaid in _Roma, Italy,_ but it was also akin to _nails on a_ _fucking chalkboard._

“Maybe just don’t – “

“Nicky – “

“Lorn – “

Something happened to her face, then. It had been easy to spot. Pity. _Oh, please, God, no more fucking pity. Especially not from her. Christ._

“Nicky, I – I love you, I do, hon, _really.”_

Well that just made everything one-hundred times worse. _What’s next? She loved her. Great,_ _real nice._

“But – “

_But what?_ She wasn’t ** _in_** _love_ with her.

“But I love my husband.”

“Let me get this straight. You love me, but you’re _in_ love with him.”

Lorna nearly grimaced. As she should have. Nicky’s tone was bitter, ruthless. She couldn’t help it.

“Exactly. Oh, _hon_ ,” she cooed, her own shoulders crumbling under the bearing weight of – could it be – _guilt?_

Lorna _Strawberry Shortcake_ Morello was actually feeling guilty for something she _should_ be feeling guilty about? _Stop the presses! Ring the church bells!_

“I’m so sorry _honey_ , so, _so,_ sorry. You have _no idea.”_

She touched her hand to Nicky’s wrist and Nicky pulled away. She _did_ have an idea. A really clear picture, actually.

Lorna retreated into herself, as if scorned, as if she’d been bullied by some _teenyboppers_ one grade above her. She was hurt. And this time, Nicky let her hurt. Thought that she _deserved_ to.

Nicky was learning now that love was not boundless, negating the optimism of those trapped in marriages, with kids and a dog at home, or those in an abusive relationship. 

Love had boundaries. She could see it now. And for years, _she’d_ been in an abusive relationship, while not physical, it was very much emotional, and the kicker was that she had not been in it under duress.

It was probably some sort of statistic, and she wondered now, what the numbers were as she looked into Lorna’s open, concerned, _pitying_ face. At her eyes limpid with the beginnings of tears, at her skin, nearly white, weathered by guilt and confliction.

_How many women were in love with their abusers?_

_Was it subversive? She wasn’t naïve. Of course, it was._

_What about the men? How many men still loved the woman that abused them, and for the sake of not being so hetero, how many men still loved them man that abused them?_

_How many women still loved the woman that abused them?_

_Answer: At least one._

Lorna was never good at making decisions for herself. And that was fine, for awhile. There was some irony though, because somehow, with her sweet, demure, little act, Lorna called the shots in their relationship. Always had. Her _fucking_ sexuality made everything so _fucking_ difficult. _She loves me. She loves me not._ That’s the game they play. Only, without the fucking flowers. But no more.

Nicky was _fucking_ done. And it sucked, because no matter how thoroughly pissed off she was right now, she still wanted Lorna’s hand to rub up and down her back in comfort. Still wanted to feel Lorna’s fingers in her warmth. Still wanted to pull her into her lap, touch her hair, kiss her head and say _it’s okay, kid. You don’t love me, but it’s okay._ How fucked up is that shit, huh?

“Nicky?” Lorna was saying, extending her hand to her again.

And it took every ounce of shredded pride and dignity to turn her back and walk away.

She could picture Lorna’s crestfallen, crumbling face, the blush of her cheeks ruddy, her skin wrinkling with the onset of tears and becoming rough with salt as they fall. She could picture that sickening _puppy-whose-tail-got-stepped-on_ expression alighting her eyes, eyelashes stuck together, her throat burning with shame and heavy with the effort it took to keep sobs at bay.

The vignette was so strong, so vivid, that Nicky almost gave in.

 _Oh, kid._ She clucked her tongue in sympathy, nearly in _empathy_ , one last time. _Don’t you worry. I’ll be okay. It’s you I’m worried about._


	8. So Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre season 1. Smut. First time.

In the chapel for the first time, she feels like God is watching, judging, has never touched another girl before, doesn’t know what to do. 

She’s watching Nicky, and Nicky’s watching her, a bemused expression on her face and then Lorna trains her gaze to the ceiling, the skylight, the stained glass, and then comments on it, purely for something to say, because if she doesn’t talk she might explode.

Sexual tension like this was unfamiliar to her, although, whether or not its entirely unwelcome is a question she has yet to answer for herself.

Finally, because she can’t take it anymore, because she wants to freaking kiss that cute, little _Gossip Girl_ smirk right off of her mouth, because she wants to feel those thick, beautiful curls in between her fingertips, as she tugs and tugs and tugs, she speaks.

“I don’t know how to do it, Nicky. I wanna make you feel good, you know, cause ah, you, ah, deserve it, I think, I mean, I like you, you know, as a friend and all that and uh – “

She was talking too much now but couldn’t make herself stop. She didn’t know how to explain how important Nicky was to her, what she was to her, right now, in this moment. Was she just a friend? A friend that came with sex? A _girlfriend_? But _no, no, no, no_. She had Christopher. And she wasn’t _gay._

She’d never let another woman touch her, although they’d tried, and thinking about another woman touching her didn’t take her body places she hadn’t known it could go until her early twenties, when Franny set her up with this guy from her work and his hand brushed across her pelvic area when he was reaching for her hip.

She’d felt this weird little jolt and it didn’t stop _jolting_ until his hands were off of her and he’d driven away from her in his car. She had almost told him to go back, to stop kissing her, release the hard grip on her hip and touch her _there_ again, but for longer and with purpose this time.

She didn’t and so he never did, a nice Catholic girl and a nice Catholic boy. There would be no mention of it again. It was a mistake, a mistake that she fantasized about for nights and mornings afterwards, even though that too, was a mistake. A sinful, sinful, mistake.

Lust was that. Lust was _sinful_. The cross she wore around her neck was her sign of her devotion, even as this place, this ugly, dark place, stripped away everything else. Her relationship with God would get her through, she believed that, and it would take her places, many, many places, after she was out of here. Maybe she would go to school, become a fancy lawyer or doctor or something, but then, what about the kids? Who would make dinner for them? For Christopher, after his long, hard day at the office? Yes, God would guide her to be the best housewife she could be.

Since she was a little girl, that was her dream, she’d stare at the television, her sister bored beside her, her mother reading a magazine absently, and tell herself that _Leave it to Beaver_ and nothing on her. Nothing on Miss Lorna Morello.

But right before her eyes, her dream was wavering, lost in the mirage that was this very pretty woman; lost in her eyes, ringed messily with mascara, teasing now, but cautious, waiting, as though she was expecting Lorna to leap up at any moment and run from the church - as if she knew what her mind was _screaming_ at her and that her religion, which she’d kept guarded all her life, was _pleading_ with her; lost in her hair which carried with it a sweet, sleepy, lavender, mingling with cigarette smoke and the unpleasant scent of mildew in the chapel, although neither had the power to seduce her completely; lost in her face, softly painted with freckles that had no rhyme or reason, a constellation along her temple, a trio of spots across the bridge of her nose, and one, lone, dot above her upper lip and suddenly, Lorna couldn’t fight the urge to kiss it, to glide her mouth gently over her philtrum, catch the moan that spilled from her lips at the back of her throat.

“Wow, kid,” Nicky breathed out after she’d let her bottom lip spring free from the confines of her teeth. She was a bit of a biter, most of her boyfriends, most men, had found it _hot,_ and _sexy,_ _unexpected_ , but she had no idea what a _woman’s_ opinion of it would be, what _she_ would think of it. Maybe she didn’t want to know. She didn’t think her self-esteem could take it. “You’re a great kisser.”

Lorna sat back from her, now haunch on her knees; she could feel her eyes moving back and forth, searching, _blip, blip, blip._ She could see Nicky’s slow-moving grin, could feel her teeth and tongue as she reciprocated her kiss, a kiss that now seemed like it happened a lifetime ago.

“Really?”

The kiss had felt natural, and it was even more natural to be on the receiving end of it, which _felt right_ , but she had to know, and so did Nicky, that it was _wrong_. Really, really, wrong. _Right? Agh, it’s all so **confusing**. _And Lorna hated confusing. Didn’t fare well with it.

Even her sister could see that, said that she was a _gullible little girl_ and somehow it had become as closely paired with who she was as her religion – for all of her life she was a _gullible little Catholic girl_ who wore collared shirts and tunics with knee socks to school, a scrunchie in her hair with a face as fresh as winter’s first snowfall, and for the first time in her life, she desired to be someone else.

Someone who was daring, wild, and _one whole step ahead._ She didn’t want to be _wet behind the ears_ no more, just like Nicky had called her once, or twice, maybe more, with _‘kid’_ thrown in there, sweet as cherry pie. _Kid, kid, kid._ That word held so much power, could change the tune of anything Nichols could and has said to her. Made it seem like whatever she was saying had the best of intentions, couldn’t be refuted, was only said out of love and not malice. It made her feel taken care of, solaced, not coddled or patronized like a clueless child. It made her weak in the knees. And now was no exception, either.

“Yeah, really. What’s the matter, kid? You’ve never kissed another person before or something?”

“No, I’ve just never kissed a _woman_ before,” Lorna nearly sputtered, choking on the word like it was making her throat swell and compromising her breathing, “or something.”

“Oh yeah?” Nicky cocked her head at her, licked her lips, opened and shut her mouth. “Well I don’t bite…as hard as you do, anyway.”

And now she was winking and doing this _thing_ , this thing with her eyebrows and her lips, a subtle raise, creating the smallest ripple in the skin of her forehead, a subtle bite, sinking her teeth in, soft, slow, and _Jesus take the wheel_ because she may as well have been mouthing the words _fuck me_ , _fuck me **now**_ , and Lorna was frozen.

Until finally, her mouth could move, in answer to a challenge that Nicky had never issued outright. Did she want her to? “I don’t know how to do it.”

Nicky smirked, tilted her head up towards the ceiling and back, looking again at Lorna, her face blank now, impassive, almost. When she smiled again, as if to put her at ease about the whole thing, the shock of it, of her features changing like that so abruptly, and just the plain reminder of how lovely that smile of hers was, so _lovely_ , Stevie Wonder should have written a song about it, made her silent again. As it widened some, she couldn’t help but think to herself that maybe he had.

“You know that saying, treat others how you wish to be treated?”

A nod. Tentative. Unsure. Like maybe she didn’t know. 

“Yeah?” 

A smirk. Or was it a smile? Genuine. Wholesome. It had no place here, behind this altar, where two people were readying themselves for sexual acts. Was sex the same, with a woman? Was it even called that? Or was it something softer, less volatile than the word _fucking_ suggests? 

She had a feeling that with Nicky, it _wasn’t._

“You know what you’re doing, I know you do. Don’t hold out on me now, kid.” 

She’d find out soon enough. _Wouldn’t she?_

And then Nicky was kissing her again, full force, her hand against her chest, pushing on it, her other one holding her cheek, her mouth taking from her every ounce of air and giving it back all in the same frenetic second, and in that moment no matter how hard she tried, to say _no_ , to say _stop,_ to say _this isn’t right,_ **_we’re_** _not right_ , Lorna still couldn’t breathe.

When her strength returned to her, Lorna pushed back, sent her falling into the altar, and she was without grace but not without beauty – hair a billowy mess, sticking to her face in hot, sweaty patches, glowing with excretion and the promise of sex, her lips red and chapped, her makeup still as it was before this all started – _fuck,_ how does she do that? How does she look so – _so_ – Lorna didn’t know how to describe how she looked, now or without the circumstance.

She was just _Nicky._ And Nicky wasn’t _just_ anything, just _cute_ , just _pretty,_ just _beautiful_ , just _funny,_ just _coy,_ and boy, oh boy, was she not just _shy._ Nicky was a plethora of things melded together. Nicky would often call _her_ a _hurricane,_ and maybe it was for the same reasons, but still, Lorna was not thinking about herself. _She_ was the hurricane. Unpredictable, unprecedented, a force to be reckoned with, one to take cover from but not to challenge. A wind that both burned your skin and soothed it, sometimes in the same breath.

She had power. She was _powerful_. And Lorna was scared of that, _terrified._ Nicky Nichols, right now, nearly naked and breathless in front of her, could sweep her into the air, take her off of her feet and make her fly, and never, ever, let her touch the ground again. She could _love_ a _woman_ , and - she stopped, barely breathed, because in the silence of everything but the steady pattern, Lorna thought she could hear God’s admonishment.

It didn’t stop her though, not this time. This time, she pretended there was no one there, no one except her and Nicky, as she tore her clothes off of her body, just barely restraining herself enough not to use her teeth, which may or may not have really impressed, but there would be other opportunities for that, she couldn’t help but thinking, with this untamed smirk on her face and silvery glint in her eye.

Her own reflection in Nicky’s eyes was sexy, dishevelled and immune, she was thoughtless and dizzy with light-headedness. The risk. It made her blood run hot and her kisses even hotter. Dotted along her skin like the burn of a cigarette, marking abuse as they tore further down her body, anything but gentle around her groin and inner thighs. Nicky was moaning and groaning and hissing and cussing up a storm, and when her name, _Lorna,_ left those swollen lips in vain, _fucking **Christ** , Lorn,_ she was on top of the world.

When she tried to kiss her back even harder, her fingers prying and pleading, her mouth overtaking her own, her tongue sweet, her lips even sweeter, Lorna almost let her. It was such an otherworldly sensation; in one second her mouth is pressed to hers in a kiss and in another its pressed between her legs, and then, _fuck,_ she’s _tasting herself_ and its not as disgusting as she expected, and maybe its even _turning her on_.

Now Nicky’s breath is on her hair, and she’s sure she can smell the deep aroma of citrus and lavender and mildew and _sex_ that’s enshrouded their clothes and skin, and its _delicious_ , a melding of their two scents and one they’ve made together, tinged with sweat and the staleness of breath. It was almost intoxicating, giving her the spins, and preventing her from thought. It was just one word in her mind, over and over. _Nicky, Nicky, Nicky, **oh, Nicky** …_

“Let me fuck you, will you?” her breath is heavy, nearly begging, and Lorna can’t help but revel in it. She wants to be, _needs_ to be, but still, even after all this, she’s nervous.

Now, she’s trailing kisses up and down the side of her face, and its an oddly lustful action and Lorna can’t help but make sounds of approval, feeling Nicky pause at the corner of her mouth and chuckle, and Lorna’s one thought is that if she turns her head just a little to the left…and then she does; and Nicky’s making a _harrumph_ of surprise as her teeth bite softly into the flesh of her tongue, and then her fingers, at their own volition, surprising even herself, make their way, and then she’s there, and its warm, wet, _very_ _wet,_ and coating her fingers but it’s a pleasant feeling.

Her mouth leaves hers, encouraged now by the sighs that are more like groans and the hums that are probably words that she can’t articulate right now, and latches onto the pinky flesh of her nipple. And after a minute or two, the other.

“Holy _fuck,_ mmm, _Lorn_ you are _– so good...”_

Nicky’s eyes are shut tight, so tight that the skin there is nearly translucent, and she could almost see the whites of her eyes as they rolled back into her head. Her face is hot with this raw heat, perspiration snaking down her cheeks and across her forehead, and for so long, for her entire adult life, she’d thought that nobody could look remotely attractive like that, because sweat wasn’t pretty, but she was noticing now that there was more to it than that; it was something almost _celestial_ , and for a moment that didn’t last, she felt bad for thinking of it _that_ way, the glow of Nicky’s face in the light of her ministrations. _So good._

“And you, my love, are so, **_fucking_** _beautiful_.”

She was distracted for a minute, as Nicky came in bright flashes of exclamations and expletives, and it was another thing altogether, different from what she was used to, different from what she called ejaculation, _pump and done_ , it was so much more of what she could only describe as a production.

Lorna watched as Nicky’s limbs constricted, spasmed, and it was as if her mind just stalled, waiting for her body to catch up because there was no speaking, and if not for the sporadic sounds of reaction, husky and guttural, there would be silence, because she too, was rendered speechless.

Her body relaxed then, slumped against the altar, her head laid back, her features drawn, tired, but there was a small, appreciative smile. Lorna couldn’t help but draw over it with her fingers, the flesh of her lips warm and chapped.

Before Nicky could say anything, Lorna leaned forward and buried her face into her hair, feeling damp tendrils tickling her cheeks and nose. She shut her eyes against that overwhelming scent, still suffocating them, making her feel drunk and elated, giddier than she has ever been before. She almost laughed. Nicky’s breathing was steady again, warm against her back, now a welcomed sensation in the chill of the chapel, which she hadn’t noticed before. _My love._

That was what she’d said. In that moment of grandeur, she called Nicky Nichols her _love_ , and she couldn’t take it back without sounding stupid. She didn’t think she really wanted to, either. It sounded comforting, the term of endearment, it made her feel like she had someone she could rely on. She stared up inconspicuously at the ceiling of the chapel, the artwork, the stained glass, her gaze flitting briefly to the confessional. Even if that someone was a _woman._

She met Nicky’s eyes then, round and large with euphoria and satisfaction. She smiled, and Lorna smiled back, leaving one last, if anticlimactic, kiss to her lips.

“Well, that was fun, sweetheart. Let’s do it again sometime.”

She was shocked at her sudden boldness, at her brashness, and even more so at her immediate, unmistakable desire to do this again. She couldn’t admit anything to herself, not yet, so that would have to do, for now.

Nicky smirked in response, pulled her back down against her body and kissed her head.

“You got it, kid. Same place, same time?”

Lorna managed a nod against the current of tiredness that had began to tug at her and could hear Nicky’s chuckle as she carded her hands through her hair, and it almost sounded as though it were in admiration. She did good. _So good._


	9. The Best Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-prison. Future fic. Carmine Morello is alive and well.

When Nicky first walked in the door of their apartment, now a double bedroom plus bath, courtesy of both Red and the Vause-Chapman’s lawful rich privilege, as a wedding gift, there was silence. At first. Then, a steady stream of humming, quiet and saccharine, drifting high from down the hallway.

Ah. There she is. Instead of calling out to her - _Lorn_! - like she so often does when she gets home, hoping that when _Mamma’s_ found, so is their son, and usually, she’s right, she decides to stay silent. It gains the attention of the one, the only, _Alexandra_ Vause, who first scowls when Nicky addresses her like that, and then gives her one of those patented sexy smirks. “You know that’s not even my name, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Nicky shrugged her shoulders in an almost flirty kind of way. That’s just how the two of them had always been – a little _too_ close – and smiled back at her. “I know it pisses you off, and that’s enough for me.”

Alex rolled her eyes, chuckled, and it was a deep sound, so unlike her wife’s that it suddenly took her by surprise, though what didn’t, was her response. “Fuck off, Nichols.”

Nicky was about to give her the exact sentiment, to the letter, when another voice, much smaller, and without conviction, beat her to it. “Yeah. Fuck off, Mommy!”

Holy _shit._ If Lorna could hear him now, he was a dead little man as much as Nicky was a dead woman. She just laughed. _Jesus Christ_ _on High_ , she was a terrible parent. Her son smashed his head into her stomach without saying another word, smacking his lips together in contentment as she carded a hand through his dark, dark curls.

Thankfully, Carmine looked everything like Lorna and nothing at all like his father, whom she held just a tiny, itsy bit of contempt for. Really, it was only natural. Even his ex-wife’s puttied lips were marred by a scowl at the mention of his name. That too, was only natural, but calling Lorna Vinny’s ex-wife was not and honestly, probably never would be. He is _such_ an _asshat._

“Great parenting.” Alex scoffed, a smile playing at the corner’s of her mouth, jumping to and from her lips like jump rope, the only thing missing was the bubble gum rhymes. She was teasing her, and it wasn’t funny. Because she just had that thought herself not two seconds before Alex had said it out loud.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks,” Nicky mumbled, leaving a gentle kiss on the top of Carmine’s head. “I try really hard, don’t I, _Kisa_?”

He nuzzled closer into her chest, smelling of _Welches_ grape juice, dirty socks and quintessential _boy._ She took a deep, long breath, reveled in it for a second longer than she needed to because she _wanted_ to, because she hasn’t seen her baby in six hours and that’s longer than kindergarten and a playdate combined, and she missed him like _crazy._

“Where’s Mamma?” she asked him, her voice soft, nearly a whisper. When Carmine pointed to the bathroom door, closed, but with the light on, his cheeks lifted in a _big_ smile, sweet and innocent, at the voice emanating through it: Lorna’s, slightly loud, singing the lyrics to what sounded like _Il Cavallo Del Bambino_.

Traditionally, Lorna would sing it when Carmine was on her lap, sometimes watching the TV, other times staring mindlessly at the black screen and fussing, because yes, even at five, he was still a fussy child. Nicky blamed that on Lorna’s needy, whiny ass – her smoking hot one, don’t get her wrong, and her wish to coddle him for as long as he stays her _little Gattino_. Her _little Kitten._

Now, Nicky smiled too, putting a finger to her lips and then one onto Carmine’s, giving Alex the eye as she did. Alex nodded in response and kept her laugh to herself. She was right to be laughing. This could end up being hilarious. Or, it could land her straight onto the _Couch of Exile_ – their far from large and luxurious beat up garage sale sofa. It was the first purchase they made out of prison, ironically, before a hot meal or a cold bottle of water that didn’t taste like it once had frogs boiling in it, the sofa that they couldn’t bare to part with from their first apartment in Queens. Fuck it, today she was a betting woman. She was willing to roll the dice.

 _“Il cavallo del bambino va painino va pianino.”_ She reveled in Lorna’s soft, wispy voice for a moment, its timbre like cottonwood in the spring, falling all around her, before pushing the door open and scaring her poor, unsuspecting wife, her face paling despite the makeup as she gasped, loudly, along with a small sound that was familiar, like a _scream, but_ muted.

It was otherwise known as her _Carmine is a very light sleeper and what you’re doing to me, Nichols, is very much amazing_ scream, and this time, Nicky refuses to grammatically correct her, because its too difficult to explain to a doe-eyed princess such as herself, why its incorrect, and also because that scream is her _sex scream_ and its so **_very much_** _something else,_ something _dirty,_ that saying anything at all would ruin it.

Why she was screaming like that now was a mystery, but Nicky would take it. She would take it any day, anytime; would take her up against the sink, or the bathtub with a broken tap, even on the _fucking floor_ , in one, quick and tawdry second. No hesitation. Ever.

“Oh, my, you sure scared me, Nicky! What was that about?”

Except when her five-year-old little boy with his watchful, curious eyes was right there. Then, she hesitated. Just a little. Enough to trip Lorna up, to make her think its over. But then the tables are turned and she’s over her shock and fixing her with this look that transcribes every sense of longing, both in the physical and mental capacities, her eyes lurid with the heated color of a temptress, her body like fire. She _knew_ what it was about. And it was _so_ not over.

“Vause,” her voice was suddenly gruff, husky with seduction and low with desire. “Watch the little _Kisa_ for us, yeah? And turn the, whatever the hell he watches -”

“ _Paw Patrol,”_ Lorna supplied, and Nicky was pleased to find that her voice was just as gravelly, if not more so, yet she had never, not once, touched a cig in her life, so it was all sex. Fuckin A. “Turn it up loud. Just don’t damage those little ears. He needs those.”

“Got it,” Alex said, steering Carmine away from the bathroom and deftly fielding his questions – _why are they both in there if its just Mommy who has to go to the bathroom? Mamma was just cleaning it, but she’s done now, I saw it_ – with almost practiced strategy.

It was really a shame she’d never have her own kids. Unless she finds some way to double cross Piper and her birth control regimen, not just that, but also her _‘sperm is off the table’_ rule. But, as they all knew from experience, it was quite the challenge to pull a fast one on ol’ Chapman.

“Hello, trashy Audrey Hepburn.”

Oh well, Nicky couldn’t think about that now. Didn’t want to. All she wanted to think about, the only thing she was capable of thinking about, right now, was the woman standing in front of her: hands low on her hips, all curved bones and elastic skin, and a pout on those beautiful, bowed and rubied lips; like a goddamn recalcitrant, sulky teenager, whose in love with a cradle robber at best and a slut to the nines at worst. She was so fucking sexy right now.

“Hello, vixenish Donna Reed,” Nicky smirked, staring long and hard at her, at the pinup curls and the peachy colored dress she wore that looked like it came straight off the back of a model for _Good Housekeeping_ , if that magazine had models. _They should,_ Nicky thought, licking her lips, _they’d sell more._ How much taffeta had to die a thousand deaths for that dress to be made? _Shit_ , she really ought to resist more when Lorna forces her to watch those wedding dress shows with her. Even as she says it, she knows she can’t. Nicky Nichols lives to make her woman happy, and happy she will be.

She clucked her tongue, didn’t break her gaze, lustful and greedy. “You know, I’m afraid of the dark. Mind if I hide under that poufy little number of yours?”

Lorna furrowed her eyebrows, the giggle that had been blooming on her lips dying before it could flower. “It’s not dark, though.”

“Jesus, Lorn,” Nicky said, more to herself than to her, leaning back against the wall and flicking the switch. “Play along will you?”

“Okay, okay, I will,” Lorna nodded with a lip bite, that giggle now in full bloom again, pink and sweet smelling, the color of skin with that scent of dampness after a rainfall. Her favorite. All of it.

And then they were making out, and then they were having sex and it was all so expected, with a norm that they’d adjusted to and were satisfied with, and even though it sounds like boring old married sex, the same sex that used to give Nicky nightmares if it were merely thought about, its not, because there’s a salaciousness to it that they have a desperate, clawing thirst for that’s there in every thrust, every caress, every kiss, every word, every beginning and every end. It’s there and they give in to it with every shuddered breath.

“You close?” Lorna murmured into her ear, and she’s thinking about how long its been since she’s been asked that, that _for once_ , she’s not the one asking and it feels _so good_ ; her wife’s fingers and her hands and her weighted breaths, heavy with frustration and gooey with self-satisfaction… and then it’s a different thought before she can even open her mouth, and that’s that Lorna Morello should be damn well satisfied because she just fucked her wife without pause or patience, fucked her until she had _no choice_ but to _come_ at her _fucking_ _beckoned call._

When they were lying there, side by side on the bathroom floor, it took a minute of silence in solitude before Lorna curled into her and palmed her bare stomach, fleshy now, emerging with the beginnings of a bump. She was starting to show, and just like Lorna, Nicky couldn’t wipe the shit-eating grin off of her face. It was just _so cool._

It amazed her, what a woman’s body was capable of. If Boo were here, she would say something like it was amazing what a _gay woman’s_ body could _still do_ , without the man, and yeah, she’d be right. It was _pretty fucking **gay**_ , she agreed as she kissed _her_ _wife_ , and _pretty fucking **cool.**_

“Do they know?” Lorna was whispering to her now. “About you – about the _pregnancy?”_

“Yeah kid,” Nicky mumbled, her voice tired, as she tangled her fingers through Lorna’s hair, dark, dark, and darker, and all it did was make her think that Carmine needed a haircut again, and soon, because, man, was his hair getting shaggy, falling everywhere so she couldn’t see those beautiful, dark eyes. _His Mamma’s hair was hiding his Mamma’s eyes._ “They know.”

It just wouldn’t do, because she absolutely _adored_ how much he looked like Lorna; Nicky Nichols had never used that word before, that is until her son was born, and just like that, one look at his cherub face, getting cheekier with age, _his Mamma’s cherub face_ , and it was almost every fifth word in her vocabulary. He was a beautiful boy and there were some days, especially now, that looking at him made her cry. A hormonal tick of sorts. _Fucking pregnancy._

Nicky sighed as Lorna rubbed her hand along her belly and there was such love there, such admiration in her eyes, that Nicky almost refrained from saying what she was going to say next. Almost.

“They know about the human inside of me, but not the alien that’s treating my uterus like it’s a fucking _Holiday Inn_.”

Lorna frowned down at her sympathetically. It was the same look Nicky had given her many times when she was pregnant with Carmine, in prison no less. It was weird but welcomed to be on the receiving end of such an intense feeling.

“Oh baby.” Lorna sighed, and Nicky was flooded with a different kind of warmth. It was so rare for Lorna to call her that, and the sound of endearment dripping from her tongue was so auditorily pleasing it made her toes curl.

“ _Amore mio_ ,” she cooed, dropping a kiss onto Nicky’s forehead and pressing her lips against her hairline. _My love._ “I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad.”

This was making Nicky want to stay pregnant forever. No matter how shitty it got. She could be professionally pregnant. Like a kangaroo. She didn’t need this damn job, _no sir._

“They gave me the job.” Nicky didn’t want to change the subject, could talk about her pregnancy and their baby forever if she could. “Told me they would have enough staff to cover my mat leave when the time comes.”

It was just as a cashier at a shitty chain grocery store, but her boss was actually incredibly nice, even if he did seem a little perverted, which really should have deterred her more than it did. A job was a job.

“Oh, that’s great, Nicks!” Lorna squealed. “I’m so proud of you. For _everything.”_

She rubbed her hand affectionately over her distending abdomen again, the less than perfect picture of a burgeoning baby bump. Lorna had looked _great_ pregnant. Carried her weight well. Nicky wasn’t sure how it would be for her.

Lorna pressed her ear against her skin and Nicky began to card her fingers through her hair again. A bit of a nervous habit she’d developed since becoming inseminated with one of Donor 567342’s pride and joys. _Becoming **pregnant** with **her and Lorna’s** second child. _Anonymized sperm was just a means to an end.

“I can hear her in there, you know.” Lorna whispered to her, giving her a smile. “She’s talking to me.”

Nicky chuckled, pulling a little on the ends of her hair. “She doesn’t have ears yet, you doofus. _She_ isn’t even a she.”

Lorna looked up at her, her eyes serious, her voice raspy. “I saw the poop, Nicky. The poop doesn’t lie.”

Nicky remembered that day. She’d just finished going about her business, wiping up when the door opened an inch.

Figuring it was her son but found it weird that there was an absence of his tickling laughter, she pressed on _. “Mommy’s just going to the bathroom, Kisa, have you finished your cereal?”_ What she wanted to say, to scream actually, was _Christ, kid just let me shit in peace for once alright_ but ultimately knowing that it would make her fail out of Parenting 101 and forget about being in Lorna’s good graces for weeks after that. She couldn’t risk it.

 _“It’s just me, Nicks,”_ Lorna’s voice rang out and Nicky knew she would come in regardless if she got permission or not. It was just what Lorna did. And it was fine. Most of the time. Right now, though, was a tossup. _“I came to inspect your poop.”_

What a day it was. After five uncomfortable minutes, during which Nicky stood by while Lorna took in her steaming pile of waste in all of its _shitty_ glory, Lorna determined with no nonsense that their baby was a girl this time. And Nicky didn’t have the energy to argue with her. Still didn’t. So, _she_ remained a _she_ and would until the day she’s born, and the poop is possibly proved otherwise.

“Right, right,” Nicky murmured, covering a yawn with her hand. “The poop and all that.”

“Yes, _the poop and all that._ It’s serious stuff, Nicky.” Lorna told her, standing up from off the floor and smoothing her dress, helping Nicky up and doing the same to her skirt and blouse ensemble, eerily similar to the one from the prison riot that was a lifetime ago.

“Okay kid,” Nicky said, brushing down Lorna’s hair and then her own, which was surprisingly still straight, her bangs flopping in her face like a child’s. “I’ll believe you. Now let’s go before Carmine gets suspicious. Too smart for his own good that one.”

A few minutes later, Alex had said her goodbyes and Nicky and Lorna were squished in on either side of their son, who reveled being in the middle – so affectionate, their boy – as yet another episode of _Paw Patrol_ started.

“You know Mommy’s pregnant, Kitten?” Lorna asked him, and she was met with a bit of a blank stare. “What?”

Nicky put her hand on his shoulder and he turned to her, eyes puzzled and facial features wide and curious. “I’ve got a baby inside of me, _Kisa_. A baby who’s going to grow big and strong just like you.”

She tickled under his armpits and he grinned at her. “This baby is my sister?”

 _Jesus._ Lorna must have told him. Probably all about her poop suspicions. “Yeah, babe,” she told him, not missing a beat. “She will be.”

Carmine’s smile got wider and he clapped his hands together. “Does she have a name?”

As Nicky shook her head, Lorna interjected. “Not yet _piccolo.”_

Carmine just stared at Lorna, his mouth opened a little. Lorna it seemed, realized her mistake too late. As always. She loved the woman, but damn.

The little boy’s face went red with anger that likely came from a place of confusion and over tiredness. He hadn’t had his nap today. “ _Piccolo_ is Auntie Franny’s name for me, Mamma! You can’t call me it!”

Lorna’s face registered her fault, it seemed, a second before her mind did, crumbling before she spoke. “Oh, Kitten, I’m sorry. I’m so, _so, sorry_. You’re my _Gattino_ , you know that.”

Lorna was visibly distressed now, if not more so than Carmine, and she kissed his mused curls over and over, while rubbing his back to sooth his beginnings of sobs.

Carmine’s face smoothed out after a minute, ruddy still but he was smiling again, nuzzling against his Mamma. “I know,” he said and then it was all forgotten when Nicky reached over and placed his hand on her abdomen. “You wanna help think of names for your sissy, _Kisa?”_

His attention was on Nicky now and the baby. “Mhm!”

“Okay great.” Nicky breathed out a sigh of relief and could hear Lorna doing the same. Crisis averted. For now.

“What’s her special name, Mommy? I have _Kisa_ and _Gattino_ and _Kitten,_ but she can’t have those.”

Huh. Possessive little bugger already. Awesome.

“I was thinking of _Cucciolo._ You know what that means, right, love?” Lorna asked him, and when he answered her, _puppy,_ her eyes shone even brighter.

When Carmine was just shy of one month, Lorna had brought up her desire to bring him up with bits of her heritage and Nicky was on board one hundred and ten percent, if only because she’d made a promise to Red to bring him up with some Russian in him, so that she could bond even more with her grandson. That was how Red became _Babushka Krasnyy_ and Carmine became _Kisa_ where Nicky was concerned.

Baby Girl Nichorello would have a multitude of nicknames, clearly. It was first Taystee’s moniker because, when they told her one visit awhile back, she said that _‘Baby Girl Nichols-Morello’_ was _‘a fricken mouthful’_ and that was followed by a ten-minute rant about why they just didn’t just _swallow their damn pride_ and take **one** of their last names. _Combine ‘em or something at least.’_ So, _Nichorello_ it was, and Nicky didn’t mind it. It sounded like it should be another brand of coconut chocolate bars. 

“I know why!” Carmine was saying, and Nicky zoned back into the conversation with a bit of a start. Pregnancy was making her spacey. “Cause kittens and puppies go together. Like PB and J!”

She had to hand it to Lorna, that was kind of cute as hell. “So, then she’s your _Shchenok_ , Mommy!”

Now it was Nicky’s eyes that were misting over. “That’s right, babe.”

Carmine smiled proudly, puffing out his little _very_ prepubescent chest, all skin and bone and then nestled back into the nook made by his parents. There was a minute of silence, with Lorna off in thought, her hand absently knotting itself in their son’s hair, his sweaty head against her palm, and Nicky staring at them both, her hand pressed firm against her belly where _She with the Thousand Names_ was quietly resting. Carmine had his thumb against his lower lip, his other hand kneading the blanket on his lap as he remained engrossed in his show.

Then the silence was broken once the episode was over.

“I can’t wait till sissy gets here. I want to show her _Paw Patrol_ and let her try my _Lucky Charms_ for breakfast because I know she’ll love them just like me. And we can show her how to play _Twister_ without falling down!”

Lorna let out a little cry and Nicky sniffed a bit too. She couldn’t help it. It was just so damn _adorable._

“We can do all of that _Gattino_ and more, I promise, baby,” Lorna told him, hugging him close to her side and gently removing his thumb from his lips.

Nicky leaned against Carmine’s other side and intertwined his tiny little hand with hers on her belly, seconding her wife’s sentiment with a kiss to his head.

“So much more, _Kisa._ You two are going to have the best life. We promise you that."


	10. A Family of Sinners

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holiday fic. Future fic. Post-prison.

Nicky just stared at her _wonderful_ , _precious, little bundles of joy_ – this, she might add, was a direct quote from Lorna’s sugary little mouth - in both awe and disgust _. What_ in the hell were her children wearing!? Ugh. The outfits were fucking abominations – hang on, that wasn’t right because these were actually an insult to what would otherwise be referred to as an _actual_ abomination.

“Lorn, come on. Why are you making our corrupted little demons wear these, hm?”

She ruffled Chessie’s curls, thick as can be, and the child bowed her head in response, embarrassed. She was still a quite bit shy that one. Made her all the more endearing. She took her other hand and ran her palm across their son’ s cheek, which was oddly pale for a boy who’s both parts Italian, and wherever the _douche baby_ was from – honestly, if Nicky could care even less than she already did about anything to do with the man, she would.

“It’s too late for them. They’re already sinners.”

Carmine smirked and she could see him trying to hide a chuckle behind his hand. This kid practically lived for getting under his momma’s skin these days, at thirteen, and she really couldn’t blame him. It was just too easy. You call _her children of the Lord_ sinners and you’ve got her head spinning ‘round like the Tasmanian Devil on acid. Honestly, stupid simple.

“My babies are not so. How dare you say that to my face, Nicky? What makes you say that? You don’t think I’m a good mother? You don’t trust me to raise my children in the name of the Lord and the Holy Spirit, like my momma did?”

Nicky stayed silent. Kept a straight, passive, face. Years of getting berated by Red and belittled by those little Satan’s spawns from C Block were now paying off in a culmination which was this very moment. If it wasn’t going to defeat the whole purpose here, she would have smiled.

It took less than a minute for Lorna to break and strike near insanity. Silence was a weapon chose wisely where Lorna Morello was concerned. It was a fucking powerhouse.

“Oh my gosh, you don’t trust me, you don’t, you don’t, you don’t!”

Now, Nicky smiled. She actually full-on grinned. Felt that the situation suited it. Now you gotta admit, it is all quite hilarious. Especially those little _Mary Poppins_ get ups those kids were wearing.

If they were in Hebrew school, like she had been a million light years ago, some little bastard would’ve popped ‘em in the kneecaps. And she wasn’t going to promise that _little bastard_ wouldn’t have been her. Take the fact that these kids were hers out of the equation, and that she was thirty-six years old, which made her a fucking adult, and they’d be fair play.

“Their parents are ex-cons what’d you think was gonna happen, babe?”

Lorna shook her head repeatedly, as if she were willing the thought away. Banishing the truth of that statement from ever existing.

“No, no, no. My children are perfect little angels sent from Heaven to be with us.”

Nicky couldn’t help it. She rolled her eyes. Sometimes, the woman could be a little melodramatic. And that, unfortunately, was putting it lightly.

“And so that means we automatically have to celebrate this Easter bullshit? What are we implying here, that this God you believe in, is a vampire?”

Again, Lorna shook her head vehemently. So did their children. Oh no. Lorna had them trained well. Like little fucking golden retrievers.

“No, Mommy,” Chessie piped up, with a sweet, angelic little smile. See, _angelic_ , she could play along.

“God came back from the dead. He was dead for three days but then, he resurrected. That means he came back to life. So, on Easter, we celebrate that He has risen.”

Francesca looked sickeningly proud of herself. “Wanna know where I learned that?”

And Nicky couldn’t hold it back, either. Damn. Those were some pretty big words for an eight-year-old. “Where, baby?”

Their little girl crossed her arms over her flowery, little chest and grinned, quite believing that she was well-deserving of praise. “Sunday School.”

Nicky scoffed. Shook her head. Then, she checked her watch. She gave Lorna a look of subtle surrender. She won. The kid always won when it came to her. Always would.

“Come on, family. We’re going to be late for church if we don’t get a move on.”

Nicky’s soul purpose in this life on the outside was to keep her family afloat. Keep her babies happy. All three of them, and some, she thought with a seductive roll of the tongue, _more than others._

She looked over at her wife who was helping their daughter shrug into her ivory cardigan, lifting up her hair into a makeshift ponytail so that none of that beautiful strawberry blonde gets caught in the sequins. Lorna was such a fucking fantastic mother.

She couldn’t say the same for herself, and especially not without sounding like a pompous dick, but Lorna reminded her of what she had always thought was a crazy alternate reality, that she was a great mother, too, a kind, nurturing one, who _showed the fuck up,_ every day.

Nicky grabbed Carmine’s hand and felt him squeeze hers back. “You ready for Church, bub?”

He looked up at her, the picture of innocence. The irony there, reverting back to the two ex-cons argument, palpable. “Do we get to go for brunch after? And can I get pancakes instead of eggs?”

She smiled. “Yes, and yes.”

Carmine smiled back. “Then yes.”

“I call shotgun!” Chessie yelled from in front, her hair blowing wildly out behind her.

Lorna was going to _shit_. But honestly, it was her fault for not using the special stay-and-hold stuff from that beauty store she’d spent a million bucks on. _Jesus Christ,_ she thought with an invisible shudder. _What was happening to the butch in her?_ If Big Boo could see her now, would she ever be ashamed. Or amused. Or both. Definetly both. She grinned. She really missed those Litchfield bitches. 

“Hey now, Baby Houseman,” Nicky put a stalling hand on her shoulder. And Chessie pouted in response.

“You know the rules. No person under the age of thirteen gets to sit in the front seat.”

Carmine perked up from beside her. “Wait, can _I_ sit in the front, then?”

Just as Lorna was about to speak, likely to prattle on about the number of deaths of young children caused by faulty airbags, or something, Nicky beat her to it.

“You know that spot is reserved for your Momma. Don’t play dumb, both of you.”

As both children sulked for a bit in the backseat, Nicky drove the speed limit and without use of the horn to please her wife.

She gave her a small smile when Lorna reached over the console to hold her hand on her thigh. This picture right here was so consensual and _conservatively lesbian_ that Boo would have a _fit_ if she were here.

At the stoplight, Nicky leaned over and chastely kissed her.

“Happy Easter, Nicks,” Lorna mumbled against her mouth, and when Nicky separated from her, she left her lips in her hair.

“Happy Easter, love.”


End file.
